THE BADLANDS

THE BADLANDS

The dust of another withered afternoon
Backfires like a wayward gun.

I am pricked by the cactus,
Worn down by the scorching rays of the sun.

Huddled and sweating, heart in my throat,
While the lizards and the desert vultures
Take their calm repose.

I muddle through another day,
Alone in my desperate street clothes.

My tent is falling down around me,
Your name a prayer that coats my tongue,

In a world of sound and fury,
Heartbreak echoes like a drum.

The hymn of praise I mouth for you
Hangs silent in the air,
And like a ghost you haunt my dreams,
Broken and beyond repair.

The dregs of another muggy night
Swim in my dreams like a frantic fish,
Fins clipped and torn on the ocean floor,
Pining away in mortal anguish.

I am impaled on your indifference,
Squirming like a pig on your twirling skewer,
Cast into this Hades like some common evildoer.
The dust of another ill spent day
Backfires like a wayward gun.
Alone I roam the badlands,
Your prodigal son.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED