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After you are dead


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Scorching Heat

I hate this oppressive, scorching  heat
Stifling lungs and searing feet.
I hate this dead, lifeless air;
No wind to cool or tossle hair.

The desert is a harsh and cruel place
Leeching all moisture from hands and face.
Even its plants offer no shelter or shade;
No flowers to bloom and gently fade.

A cloudless and clear azure sky,
Even the birds too parched to fly.
Summer monsoons tease a promise of rain;
Yet bring no relief from scorching pain.

How I long for the approach of winter's cooling balm;
When the air begins to move and is no longer calm.
This storm soul finds no joy in whirlvish or dust devil,
I need howling winds and pouring rain in which to revel.

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Scorching Heat



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