The road ahead is uneven. And
Acacia trees surround.
Dozens of branches flung up to the sky
In supplication to a pagan god.
A few are dead, fossilized lightning bolts
That point in mirror image to the sky
And warn of the storm to come.
Others arch their backs, lost in the ecstasy
Of worship.

It’s funny how gods stick around.
We diminish their power yet their voices
Still whisper to dozy minds.

The kind of mind
The thorn-trees’ limey bark
Inspires. They say yellow fever hangs around
These trees – and I can almost sense
Sickly jaundiced fever.

Enkai rewards their worship, however,
Granting soft dew on hard thorns.
A forest of whipped-back arms and
Backs, slicing sunlight with prickly woe
Into diamond ribbons.
And the mesmerizing miasma stretching
For my head.

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