Moe's Sevenoaks Desert Odessey

So I push.
Through the crowd.
I stride through the sea,
for years,
get pushed,
get deafened,
get crushed.
Then, spy the edge,
and pull free.

I roam, we.
Like an old crow's tree.
A band of broke misfits,
mad blokes, chicks,
and me.

Like ants in salt we sift, and crawl.
Greek ruins, strange fields,
then nothing at all.
Some fall, some drift.
Two cavemen turn back.
Two stiffs become slack.
I wave the last home,
one sad girl, with bone.
I walk on, alone.

I reach a hill of burning words,
and burning birds, and gods of gold skin.
And in their light I see the whole crowd.
Their days still loud, absurd and thin.

I find a rock, and take out a tool.
I pose like an actor, or a dandy king's fool.
I carve a word, with fingers bent;
carve millions more, then die, content.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.