Thirst

A brief poem.

We were always a thirsty people.
Born deserted.
Squeezing the pulp out of the land.
Ringing out the useable, hanging them out to dry with our linens.
Guzzling any promise for salvation or atonement.
The holy men are in the church,
drinking the blood of their savior.
More, more, more.
We are fish, squirming and flopping
due to lack of ambition
and hydration.
The oceans have dried,
God’s playing another trick.
Instead of drowning us in water,
He is drying us out.
We are licking our parched and cracked lips,
Waiting for the rains of change to
settle upon the valley.
Inflate us and mate us.
We wait, for chariots to come down
Surrounded in fire
and burn the arid world around us.
We will become ash,
and our thirst will be quenched.