The Long Years

Amid the rotting ruins
red sand flows in
the silence of a moonscape in
the beam of an amber glow.
Rain, rain falls slowly,
the rain falls steady.
Rain on our ruins,
washing over a sharp pain and
flowing into brooks and
streams and rivers
overflowing like a solitary scream,
washing over lonely and calm plains,
then slowly sucked into
the desert of our vanity.