The Plain

Furrowed deep
The claws retract;
From the tender cheek
gushes blood like rain in gutters.
No storm though
Only blinding dust;
We weary wanderers
have no souls . . .
Wasteland again
Where all and one exist;
Empty ears, empty voices,
empty eyes, only.
Incomplete, always
Charred remains;
But nothing remains
in the Plain of Purgatory.

© 2001 Alexa Grave