Centuries of the same tired words
reverberate through time, never fraying
the seasons and hours of the day parsed out by man
nature’s eternal rhythms ignored or manipulated
creating monsters in their place,
leaving us to cry out, with hearts as dry as any windswept desert
longing for the cleansing rain.
Rain, so soft, it caresses parched skin and cracked lips,
falling like a gentle tattoo on ancient skin drums,
their sound taking us far away from the bits and bytes
of this modern world,
calling to the nomadic spirit hidden deep inside
to finally shake us from our slumber
awakening the wild within.