Gold Rush

Lips ripped,
injured by the sands curved migration.
Eyelashes whipped into submission by dry storms,
that aborted it’s rain centuries ago.

The gold will survive the storm,
protected by their pegmatite fortresses
for millennia.

antiquity keeps the forge lit.

I too will survive this tempest,
guarded by indigo and violet,
hardened by sins before the violence.

Such cloth interwoven into soft fineness
with the firmness of divine writ,
warding off the fate of previous pilgrims.

My eyelids protect what the cloth cannot.
Adorned with desert grains
of Bedouin thought.

Gold and bronze subtleties
smelted from coarse grit,
take hold above my eyes
for millennia,
I pray.

Michael Carney