kicking up whitegold dust as the soon-gone-storm passes,

                forcing scaled lizards from their rocks and waking

thumb-sized owls within the spines,

I found myself undeniably arid.

Crouching in the igneous soils, I reached

into my heart and withdrew

the words of wisdom the tomes of truth the books of beauty,

from which I fashioned myself an oasis.

Bringing the dark droplets to my throat, I caught sight

of those reflections and did their bidding.

In each was a face, to be forgotten

                rather than unattainably desired.

Each with a formation of paladin script,

waiting to do battle with my inner-blaze desiccation.

                Each trapped within my cupped, prison-bar fingers

                waiting to be liberated and revolutionized by age.

First is Gillian, never to be reduced to nothing

                I will never be her type of mythomaniac

                                I felt there, that day.

Next, Zoe, computer-taping paranoid

                I will never have her confidential confidence

                                I felt their minds easing as blazing ice

So many more, yet finally, Anna, a brush with love and hate

                I will never feel her strength and sandstorm-rage

                                I felt there, that day, their burning-freezing tranquility

At last, the liquid filaments drained and

I stood once more, heart hanging open,

                as scarred-healed as the bared feet upon

which I trod, blackening my path.

After the peace after the storm after

the calm before the storm had passed, I

walk on, forever, a traveler of knowledge

alone

save for my Memories and my Muses,

struggling to make a mark upon that land I called

a Page.