On the Sands of the Mojave

On the Sands of the Mojave 


Those forbidden twilights,
brandished balloons hanging
from hands fusing my horizons.
Your scheme, Medusa, wrecking
the tender years when wonderment
still struck my heart’s core, was
anchored on those midnight moons
that pierced time’s foundation.
Twenty years gone astray,
yet bees still sizzle and cymbals snap
at the thought of desire. Today I sit
and twang my concertina in the nude
on the sands of the Mojave
humming revivalist songs
for lack of any hearthstone affection.

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