Desert Exile

Here is a poem about the desert, and it’s duality in regards to progress. Fill your boots (not with sand, though)!



(Photo Credit: Declan McCullagh Photography –


(This is the first segment of the poem.)


Once again, the exodus has begun.
I march through the desert,
straight into the unending sea
of sand, heat and sweat.

It is a cycle the world runs through
from year to the next, town through towns,
a constant stream of peaks and falls
and sand flowing, filling bodies in drought.

This time, my host cast me far and out,
my views not obeying the trend of doubt,
of renewing hostility to the one true progress,
all hell breaking loose to match with this madness.

I march through this hapless desert a dire outcast
with strong sentiments of brotherhoods that last.
My progress is the source of modestless division
in this cycle of cruel, renewed racial scrutiny.

See here, I march alone, in search of my home
more permanent, prevailing through time everlasting,
in a sea of dry heat, filled in constant duress
where men’s hopes and dreams are all but useless.

I’m an ideal of the people’s endless potential
and I  cultivate growth on solemn, barren lands.
But through the endless strife and clearless direction
I failed to found the brightest men’s ambitions.

The fears of the day fostered gross eradication,
people’s base passions festered and unleashed.
They chose the status quo of violent somberness;
and I vagabond on, filled of hope so fully besieged.

I now travel around, from town to town
looking for permanence, for a prosperous home.
I am a refugee, forced from my people,
unfortunate victim of an unbearable cycle.

Suspicion and divide are the talk of the land
where I march on, resolute in my progress.
This sahara of a desert is the soul of the void
where evil’s essence would have me destroyed.

This is the struggle that I brave to master
in the hopes of finding the greener pastures.
In a world where the past keeps rising far faster,
I dream of tomorrow, a prosperous future.

People are my temple in the sand withstanding.
Without them, my temple is all but nothing.
I am nameless, an ideal with no face,
a faith that alone, knows not it’s own place.

(End of part 1)

Author: Coeur d'un Poète

I'm an Arts graduate now making a living in the world of business. I've had a passion for poems and stories before all of this. C'est la vie. Bilingue, ENG-FRA.

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