A Wild Rose in the Desert Born

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 29, 2018

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Submitted: September 29, 2018



We stood back to back, hand in hand, 
Both of us burning in the desert sand. 
We felt the blood, we felt the sweat,
We felt the tears though no eyes wept.
Both our hearts were racing, but we didn't run.
Instead we laughed and fell in love 
And waited for the end to come. 
Bullets clacked-off close by
And vultures yearned to peck our skulls.
The sound of marching feet-- 
The war drum rattled, 
The first bomb tolled.
But we stood our ground, and we didn't run: 
We laughed and fell in love 
And waited for the end to come.

Some time in between, an eagle swooped down, 
Turned into an old wise man, 
Kissed us on the lips,
And turned around.
And then he flew away. 
He saw what could be seen 
Past the fog of war, 
Dead, dull and gray. 
They hated the passion in our eyes, he said,
They hated the fucks we gave.
They hated our guts, man!
They'd watch us die, or they'd make us slaves.
The fuck in a middle finger at them
Or the fucking of our two warm bodies meant death.
They wanted to watch us burn 
But we were born burned, he said.
We were born out the blood o' Mars---I know!
When Hellfire spat from the Earth
We spat on the ground,
When the sky roared its thunder
We stomped our feet,
And when we heard the hyena cackle
We grinned to show our teeth.
And would it take the blood of a hundred lovers or a thousand? 
Would it be an eternity or would it be tomorrow?
--We couldnt give a damn! 
We live today, we die today,
Two hearts etched in sand. . . 

She squeezed my palms and I squeezed hers,
Both our hearts went numb.
We laughed and fell in love 
And waited For the end to come.

By now furious shouts, flurries of bullets,
Drones and rockets blocked the sun.
The wind from Death's scythe swept our faces. 
Next moment it'd be a bullet from a gun.

And so there we stood, us two, back to back, hand in hand.
Against all odds in the vast desert sand. 
And out the blood that dripped, the sweat that leaked,
The spit we spat, the stomps we stormed, a puddle formed,
And from that puddle. . . a wild rose was born.

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