A windswept canyon, burnt umber by Ra,
Howling endlessly, echoingly, forlorn.
The lone rider trudges, the trader’s pack sludges,
Through storms of grit and grain and dust –
Scouring the land of poison and plagues.
No settlements can sustain here,
Only the rogue stranger – stealing across this ravaged land.
Fumbling in the beige, clawing at the sky, for freedom to breathe.
For this hurricane massacres dwellers, scars the travellers.
Make haste through the winds that wash the walls,
Eating at flesh, at bones – of the guest, and the home.