Let the heat boil your blood,
Let the sweat from your brow blind you.
Instead he walks from the maw,
Great and majestic, swallowing the road.
A voice fills the desert goading him.
He feels the heat from the high sun of this desolate land,
Or is that the breath of his leviathan stalker.
His head falls down. His boots, they drag.
Ignore it he thinks. All in my head.
Behind him the highway keeps slipping away.
Stripping his sanity, so hot.
Insistent and increasingly charismatic.
His feet try to run and they scuff and fall to his knees.
Parody of celebration and reverence of…
His head jerks up and his eyes awake.
Heavy leather boots clomp clomp clomping on tarmac.
Black like the maw that follows.
A thirst so great, oh to satiate it.
Refreshing, rejuvenating life giving water.
Back home he cursed it falling,
Spilling down concrete grey towers.
Pouring from drains, ruining his $200 shoes.
The black umbrellas.
There was only one colourful similarity to hell.
Yellow taxis driving past whilst you wait,
Trying to shelter till one pulled up.
Soaking your Armani suit and Gucci shirt.
Still that yellow beacon of hope,
Glowing taxi sign halo. Mute next to…
Giver and destroyer of life. So hot.
How long has he been stood whilst the world falls behind.
Dragging feet and praying for rain,
He sings a song. Riders on the Storm.
Without the falling rain ambience it sounds wrong,
Or maybe that’s his bloody throat and cracked lips.
Behind him something roars.
It is a waterfall pulling down the river he rides.
Go down it he thinks,
Splash around drink deep.
The moisture sprays his face.
Dripping down to his tongue,
Salty, like an ocean. No. Sweat…
The river is gone once more,
Black river. Tarmac black.
Black maw eating Big Mac…
On your feet soldier.
On your knees whore.
On my knees, his thoughts.
Knees sore against matt black tarmac.
Hearing, feeling the maw, colossus.
Devourer of land catching him.
On your feet soldier. On tarmac
Walk on the that riverbed dry,
Ride the river. Riders on the Storm.
Born again he longs for rain,