The drought

I wait,
politely bored.

The Sun stretches its' grasp
across the cracked ground
for the thousandth time.
It stops when it finds no leaf 
to burn itself onto.

I sit quietly on the side.

It hasn't rained in some time now.
Maybe a week,
or month.
I search my memory in vain
and stop when it turns futile.
It's too hot to think.

The Sun has reached its' peak now,
there's not a crevice it cannot see.
The ground lies limp 
as another crack echoes through the air.
It doesn't try to hide
from the scorching eye.
It's too hot for that.

I sit
and follow the Sun with my eyes.
It leaves holes in my vision
and burns holes through my mind
but I don't look away.
It's the only thing I remember
and the familiarity feels stronger 
than its' effects.
It's too hot.

I finish up the ritual
as the Sun shifts it's gaze
to further grounds
and blink for the first time.

It's been X years and X months
and I'm still waiting on the rain.
My gaze never falters,
and my body never changes its appointed position.

I sit for eternity,
as the sand carves patterns in my skin
and the Sun torches them off,
leaving me blank,
unchanged.

I sit
and wait for the rain 
that never comes.

The Sun rises
stretching it's grasp 
across the cracked ground,
and I watch it blankly
for the thousandth time.
It's too hot.

©the_cat_in_the_hat