Matchsticks

Fly the way of windstorms
Howl at the gate, passage through the wall
Voice of death calling out ‘enter’
And no dream of disobedience will come.
At the far end of a river that once flowed swift
Now bled out into the earth and sky
Its waters fall as rain a thousand miles away
The desert beyond hides paradise
Within mirages of pestilence.
Here the red scar leads into illusion
Deep inside the valley of fire
Along a trail of matchsticks in the sun

Photo by Johnny Lindner @comfreak on Pixabay

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