Stroke

_______

I find myself here again,
earth-toned ambers of thought.
Illuminated by a cream colored sun,
mercilessly dulling the fringes
of its domain.

Indistinct murmurs arise, and the
dunes around me become shapes
that move and writhe. How long
does it take for a man to die when
left alone in the shade of his
tattered soul?

Does the heatless moroseness
cast by the cream colored monstrosity
wend its way towards total
objectivity of heart? Do we
pray amidst the death that
we peddle?

© Luqman Lee /Feb 2003