Desert Banal

A Poem

Desert Banal

The alcove of the mind runs over with blood,
And rolls a crimson drape of locks untamed,
Rushing headlong through tributaries dammed
By smooth and maudlin stones that weep in shame.

One eye of earth, one eye of god, beset
The river’s face, stopping the cataract
From answering demands of barren sands,
For Desert Banal, with drought, does blood attract.

The shapelessness of sand is comfort to some,
Those souls that long desire the total mold 
Of edgeless impress—at freedom to change
From same to same in hands with perfect hold.

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My thanks to Frater Asemlen for a helpful critique.

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