One Small Tent

In a small tent surrounded by an infinite desert plane,
Desert winds desecrationg those damned to endure its dryness,
Dark in the night, blackness so void only interrupted by stars,
Deserted by an absent moon like the gods to this place,
Men stir.

Dimly illuminated by the deep red glow of tired embers,
Adding life to their lives like pepper to undercooked pasta in desperation,
Sweat, tears, mud, blood, and enthusiasm mix as men sing,
Singing sadly for the days past and the Moon's return,
Men sing.

Choked by the airs of death of the desert's hot Decembers,
Men circle the fire as if to absorb its warmth,
And to pound the dust back into the hard floor.
No place to sit in this no-place-for-men,
Men stand.

Moaning, dancing, drinking; in the land that none remember.
Dry meat made damp by the thick saliva of thirsty men,
Hiding from the wicked winds in waxy skin,
In a small tent surrounded by an infinite desert plane,
Men survive, and hope to live.

They join hands and try to feign gladness,
Take up the dance of life and start to walk.
Before quite ready, begin to run,
Around the fire, t'where they've begun,
Faking gladness.

The wind picks up and the waving fabric brings nostalgic sadness.
The men, stopping in their place, take a breath.
Dry air whistles through beards unkempt and forgets its purpose,
As if it knew — as if they knew they'd die tonight.
Aching sadness.

The carcass of life is easy, the vulture plagued with madness,
Perhaps there never was a moon,
And the men, they plan to leave soon,
As the life has left them fatigued and frail,
And sick with madness.

The night shall last forever; it is hourless.
He grabs another log, for he is powerless.
He makes it fuel the fire, but it's fuel for cowardice.
He lives in a small tent surrounded by an infinite desert plane
With only one wish:
His grave be flowerless.