Desert phone.
The sweat flooding my eyes as a salty ocean
the heat burns me whole, my skin, my soul
the thirst dries my mouth and my deliriant thoughts
a scantily dressed ghost covered by sand is my reflection
in the mirage mirror that I could barely see.
I am walking on my own Mojave of feelings
a desert of pre conceived notions
of mindless recalls
of days in the sun, not this one now
a different sun, by the lakes of pristine cool water.
My heavy feet dragging me slowly
through miles of white yellow terrain
of rugged landscape of merciless cacti and palo verde
mesquite and walls of thorns everywhere.
Coyotes, diamond back reptiles and carnivorous birds
all waiting for my dry flesh dry bones dry blood
to be offered to feast.
Then suddenly the vision.
A lone, surreal phone booth in the middle of nowhere.
Inside, a phone book with only two names:
Lorene.
Morgan.
I manage to call both. No answer.
I only hear just distant screams.
Voices of other lost ghosts
them trapped like me
here between Baker and Vegas.
Image and inspiration source: atlasobscura.com