The air is wrong here.
It's not like the air you bathe in.
Or the air that makes your toes sing.
No...
this air boils in its oiled heat
and side-saddle sears the skin.
So, we'll walk
and we'll walk.
as Nomads hand in hand.
Searching, searching...
for a somewhere
a little less arid.
A contest entry
- arid. by girl shaman.
700 points, ended August 19, 2008, 15 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
