Monthly Archives: September 2015

Rain over California

Posted by Dash on

Southern land of the sun.
Fires consumes, takes over all,
These forsaken fields where rain does not fall.
Hot, dry, empty skies.
The harsh sting makes the earth cry, but without the tears.

Light beams down, treating us all like ants under the looking glass.
Gleams to scorch our skin and burn us down.
It takes our homes, and chases us out.
The ground recedes, wells drying up.

Branches break and leaves fall, then fade way.
Trees dying off.
Water flees, escaping the persecution of the sun.
Leaving the millions,
All who are firmly rooted here; They cannot run.

Rain over California, a fleeting thing,
And a somewhat of a dream.
Rain over California, reduced to a ticket now,
And the weakened lands are playing lottery.
Rain over California, it is so far gone.
Rain over California, maybe just once more before too long.

Baby Steps

Posted by Dash on

Shaking, fumbling, trudging along.
Slowly and unsurely stepping forward.
One small step after the other.
Not enough to be called walking just yet,
And hardly an improvement from crawling.
Nothing special here, just baby steps.

Wobbling, rocking, stomping along.
Carefully and insecurely stepping forward.
One small step after the other.
I don’t just want to walk, I want to run.
Nothing impressive here, just baby steps.

Trembling, stumbling, pacing along.
Unconfidently and questioningly stepping forward.
I moved better when I crawled,
Now here I am wanting to forsake it all.
Nothing spectacular here, just baby steps.

Staggering, lumbering, shuffling along.
Hesitantly and reluctantly moving forward.
A half-step following the next.
Falling back to my hands and knees,
Failure is all the heart sees.
I’m sick and tired of these baby steps.

Leaps and bounds, winds ripping by.
Life blurs into oblivion in the corner of my eye.
A breakneck pace is too slow.
Rushing forward at full charge.
Remnant sensations of a memory now.
The grasp of missing, dull burn of phantom pain.
Intense longing, and unquenched yearning refuse to wane.
To break away from these baby steps;
Not to walk again, but to run.
There’s nothing great here, just baby steps.

Nothing fun here, just baby steps.
No joy, no pleasure, just baby steps.
A shadow of what walking could be,
At a pitiful pace slower than a crawl.
Sometimes I trip, sometimes I fall.
They aren’t pretty, these baby steps are,
But I’m on my way.