The squint-eyed rain god
has something amiss
in his panoramic vision of the world.
That is the place, a blind spot, where
A blade of grass wouldn't be green
Weeds creep up the food chain in no hope
gather ground and the elderly
with thick heavy glasses, wait for the postman.
The fields are barren
guarded by the howling winds
Shouting, like the angry psychedelic
dancing before a cornered deity.
The dry air moves in small painful circles
Gasping for breath, hanging its tongues out
in the dried up canals.
Their stories, I wouldn't want to know
How the house gave in to disrepair
and how they ended up cooking outside
struggling to protect the staple
from the husky dust
that arduously finds its way
to be under my teeth.
Even in a drench of feelings
there is a barren image that flashes
An image of the void
Of not present.
Of no future.