the amber sky,
pitted with pock-mark stars,
an ashen moon hangs at the horizon.

a weary traveler, feet dragging beneath his
worn body, sinews screaming for respite
toes grown numb from the scorching sand heat

his visual radius offering no recess
parched throat croaking for water
blistered hands clasped in prayer for salvation

the evening winds wrap around him,
advertising the afterlife…
“you look like you need it.”

and the beaten man replies,
“if home is where the heart is,
I’ve nowhere to go…

I think I’ll take it.”