Fifty Words or Less

In a black and acrid plain
It has been 8 months or more
Since I have seen a single

Drop of rain. The brush fires
of a thousand wants have conquered;
Not all at once, but insidiously.

I have come here with one cup
Who’s contents are not enough to crack
The desperate thirst

Of this dark land where only sorrows
Rise each dawn in place of
A despondant sun that was always somewhat

Out of place.
When it left this smoking
Wasteland, I think I heard

One final cry of pain.
And since that day not one
Thing has been the same.

On my back I pack my words my crime
My words and run out under cold stars
And beg forgiveness from no one

In particuluar. It seems that is
My destiny and reason; to carry out my penance
In a place with just one bitter season.