From the edge
Of the manicured, pampered hotel lawn,
Constantly damp under automated sprinklers.
I look across miles of harsh dry sand,
At the ragged, quartz cut, lunar mountains,
Glowing black before a setting white sun,
With no softening colour
To diminish ruthless passion.
A lone road winds, like dirty tired string,
Into the depths of this cruel beauty,
To a land unchanged by time.
Where a humble man can stand
And be at one with any moment
Between the beginning and the end.

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Have a little fortune with your fame.