blackstreak SHEEP

The icing on a stale cake
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DRAUGHT

There’s a whisper on the wind that sings of your demise. The raven cackles to the hot desert sun and I poke a stick into the mess that remains. The landscape bears resemblance to the split in your skull. Cracked, red and brimming with insects. I brush the sweat from my brow, pick up the shovel and resume digging.

Thoughts today of red dust.

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