Dry Future

Acreage spreads gaping before me
shorn of sod and beaten into dust
by the sun's relentless gaze.
Fingers trail in dust,
raising eddies and wavelets in their wake.

This is what I have come to.
Sere vastness, flat and lifeless,
unable to sustain hope
forced underground.

I shield my eyes from the glaring
angry flatness from which there seems
no end.

Where did all the landmarks go?
Like westward-driven forebears facing
limitless prairie, the past nips at my heels,
nudging me to move on, dust and ennui be damned.

I think this is worse than hell and long
for flames to devour me, turning me to the ash
now in my mouth and ears and eyes and soul,
burned up with ambition, burning to succeed.

It's all crap now. Seeds cannot grow in this
unless the miracle of moisture appears.
But I am cold and dry, bereft of tears.
It's been too long a trudge
and I so want to rest, curling up in the
billowing dust now chivvied from sleep by a fine wind.

Would anyone find me under a layer of silky dirt,
particulate matter coating my self?
Could I rise, shake off the earthy flour
and continue?
Or must I instead press on without cease,
and blindly step inch by inch,
toe testing for the chasm
I am convinced lies in wait?

I pray for a clear path
in front of me. Yet when the dust settles, all
I see is the endless dry horizon.
Another prayer, for rain perhaps.