Rich Ferguson

desert_moon

“Last night the moon was a sun-bleached cowskull.

Clouds moved across the night like sandstorm.

Stars howled.

The hours slithered by,

dug their poisonous fangs into me.

My body slipped off into fevered dreams,

then mirage.

Sometimes sleep is an unforgiving desert.”

– Rich Ferguson

(Los Angeles, Poet)

© 2013

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