The Handful Of The Earth Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The handful of the earth is like sand dust
That settles inside to find footsteps there gone
Its perpetual blossoming in the rust
That is bursting to its transient blooms on
In its barren heart of dazzling weaving
From incessant desert of whiteness
Where silent and starving are bereaving
And making death blooms in its triteness

So much with the moon in delights alone
Making my grave with the day's long red rays
In deep sand hips of hills I'm driveling
Across my face burning like a small stone
Devouring spirit - to fiery hot days
Camera to the target swiveling