Poetry · Writing

Barren

The air is dead

The wasteland is plagued by absence. Nothing survives across the plains and as far as the naked eye can see.

Motors rumble in the distance. Roaring in the heat of the sun, fearing the ferocious fiery uninterrupted blast of heat.

There was once life here.

Life moved and life moves on. Not here in the barren. Death is the only living creature in the badlands.

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