Tuesday, September 6, 2016

On Top

Broad vistas of tall monuments
sweep across barren hillsides
and checkerboard roads:
The insectile progress of life.

Cirrus clouds like paintbrushed smoke
drift east. Birds waver in the skies
and dive, wings beating soft
whistles. The hollow rasp of 

breath accompanies the chorus of wind
tracing hollow cliffs. The sandstone beneath
like the jagged stab in my lungs.
The air is polluted with

the cologne of sand, the dryness
of the desert, the faint musk of dead
juniper. The salt of sweat
trickles down to my lips.

I’ve reached the top. 

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. 

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