It is a wasteland
Dark, dank, and symbolic of death
But yet not everything here was dead or dying
Life found a way even in this most God-awful of places

The river had overflowed its banks
Huge mounds of mud are molded along the shore like clay
And like clay, the mud has dried into cracks
Because, you see, the river has been dry here for some time now

I approach on foot
Wearing only dusty brown sneakers
They are an old pair, relics from an earlier life
One I lived before I came to places like this

I can see cast across the horizon
Where the town once stood
And even though the ruins are scarce and minimizing
I know that this town never was very large

The mud sticks to my shoes in blood-brown earth
Sticking like glue, my efforts to relieve my feet of it are futile
I continue on, searching for the tremendous body of water that no longer is
Even the basin is dry

I spy something out of place even in this death valley
Fossilized to the chafed ground the skeletons of fish
And even in their most exposed forms
They look more dead than what is right

I cross the ground where once a river would have carried me violently away
Pausing a moment in the center to gaze at the sky
Or rather, what I can only take as the sky
For there is no cloud to be had, nor any shade of blue

A rain pours down, the first water to brush this landscape for months
It comes slowly at first, but gains enthusiasm as the torment persists
It is not a clean, clear rain, but instead a black sticky oil that oozes from the sky
That does nothing to cleanse the land - only pollute the already tainted soil

I draw my jacket closer, covering my head from the film
And leave the oil river forming at my feet
The rain is so thick, so potent that it eats the clay away from my shoes
And soon dines on the leather below

I know there must be at least a dozen bodies drying in the burning sun somewhere in this town
Somewhere here I should be able to find them
Just ahead, had the wolves not found them
But even the dogs don’t come to this ghost town

It takes a matter of five minutes to reach the town from the dead river
Traveling across rocky soil on decaying shoes
Now my laces are frayed
And my heels bald

One building stands alone, all by itself next to its fallen brethren
If this was a one horse town, the horse would have certainly been the first to die
Nothing could have been here before
Even I can gather this

The theater, the one building still standing
Turned brown from the sand, its paint scratched away
Wood eroded by wind
And not a frame of glass in the windows

I approach the porch where a gaping hole exposes dried weeds
The desert is not hot today, or hot for the desert, at least
My jacket is warm, but I have rattlesnake skin
I can suffer the heat unfatigued

A golden ‘H’ lays flatly against the porch, rusting from rain that has ceased to exist here now
Steel rivets jut out from every angle
Reaching down to touch it, my hand burns
Singeing my cells like it was fire

Looking up, I notice the title missing
Save the ‘R’ finishing the name
The letter hangs loose by only one support
The gentle breeze swings it back and forth in creaking rhythm

The oil rain works fast to cover the landscape
And soon the burning golden brown sands are turned to black
It is as if pestilence itself has leaked from the sky
To plague the earth from the lowliest angle

I look down at my shoes, onyx now
And step back from the porch almost in premonition
The theater sways to and fro, crackling on its wood support
I cling to myself as it collapses before me, splinters embedding themselves inside my cheek

I try to pick out the wood, but too much is lodged too deep
My body hurts and my mind wanders
The town is a ghastly apparition to which I came for reason I have forgotten
My body walks to a line of cacti on the horizon

But I walk there barefoot, leaving those wasted shoes of mine back to be remembered
In the town that will never be