Badlands

After the floor of the sea rose up, ice and rain roughed out these brown hills and rocky cliffs— folds on body of an old man. It’s my own soul; I hear it in the wind. It’s my own blood, raging down rivers. Ages wrote the same sentence that can be read on my forehead. Wet clouds creep in each night. Each thorn tree grabs a bit of dirt, saving it from the downpours. I fight it, but change never falters.