There is no morning dew
for there's a snake in the grass
its tongue licking slowly the weeping wound
a sluggish oozing
from razor-sharp shards
of the shattered hour-glass
piercing the parched singed soul
cooled only on a threadbare memory
of drowning in lush green velvet
its nap to be relinquished to yet another dawn of
hope
and fire has the upper tongue
licking greedily the desiccated stalks of June
blistering consciousness
smoldering
meandering madness in chafed whispers
festering
all dangling recklessly in the balance
steadying to hear dove's meager mourn
rasping through brittle skeletons
as withered leaves cling
inflamed
strangling in the smoky glow of blood-red orb's vertigo
slackening one by one
and blown afar on an arid promise
echoing a cloudless echo
yet burnished insistence
the tiny wren
fervently brandishing innocence
taunting the serpent
who sidewinds the rough raw biting thirst
slithering slowly down from burning stone
out into the spent open
discarding the useless shriveled skin
its viperous tongue licking voraciously
the requiem of its barren dream
for there is no morning dew!