To pray or confront demons
But few ever stayed
Long enough
To know barrenness;
To sleep under hostile stars
And hear the wind
Silence jackals
And feel what it means
To be empty.
Now, you ask me
Why I write
And if I’m lonely…
You’re young
And believing
And can’t begin
To know
Where I’ve been.
But spend a night
With me
In my desert,
Hear the train whistle
Still the jackals—
Not the wind.
And listen
To the creaking
Of a midnight house
Haunted by echoes
Of what once was…
And then perhaps you can
Exorcise the demon
That led you here
That made you think
Writing was glamorous
Or romantic...
When a night
In the desert
Nearly
Turns you frantic.