MONOTONE

HIGHWAYS IN THE CLOUDS In every sound of the crickets at night In the humidity that floats the air So is the sweat on my brow So is the music of my want Dreams hidden in the vast wasteland of the desert Prick like the cactus plants that inhabit it. A butterfly in a child’s net. My life hums in a monotone of nothingness. My heart cries the voyage of my own tears. Speak their words, as they splatter, and evaporate on the blazing hot concrete. Destined to abuse and lose my abilities, I live in a hell of my own making, Save the images, I create on the highways of the clouds of my solitude. Armand Hamouth