Decide
to trudge in a sweat of fleshy moisture,
while waterless hordes yield in profusion,
dunes that tug on your boots,
begging you to pen a sentence
they have tried to compose.
you become the desert’s ghostwriter,
coerced on topics such as gone mountains
and oceans stolen drop by drop.
it is you who must eulogize them,
all these debased glories under your feet.
you who must mollify
the prayers that lap at your ankles,
beseeching in heat waves.
it is you, a passing puff of sentience,
who must decide.
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