Death in the Desert

Seven phantom figures drag their feet across the desert.

Alone in thought, alone in dream

But ensnared in a transient communion.

Every rusty grain of the ramshackle earth

Has its eyes on them. 

This ridge of wasteland knows where they have been,

It reads their journey 

Like a novel from the soles of their tired shoes.

Their destination lies ahead

A marble watchman with gaze fixed

Upon the traveling pilgrims. 

This, their ultimate terminus,

This giant of cold and callous stone

It makes them wonder

Is this a blithe figment of wandering imaginations

Or a daunting nightmare crossing the border

Of some other distant realm.

Who knows how far their minds have strayed,

What distant dimensions have they uncovered

Since these nomads were set adrift.

Seven phantom figures drag their feet across the desert. 

The sands whirl in the turbulent wind

But the drifters feel nothing, save the blistering sun.

Rays of light glint off the solemn monolith

The guardian of the end.

This statue of grim knowledge stands silently resolute,

It knows their journey

Like an erudite scribe poring over ancient scrolls 

Stained with the histories of their lives.

The travelers squint from the harshness of the burning light

But the sentinel never blinks

His gaze is resolutely settled

On the weary specters stumbling closer.

Death never blinks. 

Death never sleeps.

He is at once a daunting nightmare 

And at once a specter of imagination.

The passages of time have characterized him

As a dark angel of shadowy eternity

But he is a restful effigy of icy marble.