Final Sale
My lips are dry; a sun-parched waste
Long forgotten; longing for the life-giving kiss of clouds.
The Breath of life, a sand blast
Scathing; gouging deep long scars of pink.
The cracks; etched patches whipped
By moans and screeches, robbing healing fluids.
Screaming silence stripping moisture barren sand;
A rugged figure, struggling in the glare;
He stands, glancing at the molten-dripping Sun.
He drops; and struggles, reaching toward a vision:
A hand stretched, a beautiful brunette—the Ice Queen;
An evil laugh; a promise; Roar! the sound of Water
Falling, tumbling, spilling forth to disappear at his feet.
Thoughts of water, struggling through his mind;
A drop, a gift to bribe; his hand, it reaches
Ever to his wallet; he opens it, pulls out one piece of paper,
Crying, he hands it to the woman.
“My soul,” he blurts, and grabs a glass of Water,
And turns to flee, leaving behind all memory of God;
But, miles away he turns for one last glance, and spies
A figure, gliding toward him, dashing in the sand:
The woman, calling him to stop.
She grins at him, reaching out her hand,
A piece of paper, illegible print, she forces into his.
She smiles, a wry smile; bellows forth a laugh;
Curtly, “Your receipt, sir.”
First published in Labyrinth, vol. IX no. 2 (USNA, 1984) under the pseudonym Samson Flanders.
thesaltyslug 