Treasure Island

Matthew Moser


desert


In early morning light, temperatures starts to rise,
On raven wings, I dreamed I could fly,
Summers heat making the image wave,
Over land that workers spent their life to pave.

Not a single thing remained green,
No place to rest, no songs to sing,
Watching the heat ripple and writhe,
I felt the ground so far below was as a tide.

I searched farther to find my rest,
And I looked so far and wide,
Only thing moving in emptiness,
Was the waving earth tide.

Submitted: Friday, December 14, 2012
Edited: Monday, December 17, 2012
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