Thirsty

Wind swept craters wink at a drought weary sky,
tongues of black fanning out from their lips,
bathed only in moonlight,
on the earth's pock marked skin.
Where is the scorpion?
She pulls all the strings, the temptress,
the trapper, the villain, the judge.
Reborn at day's vigil,
to feast on the night.
The embers have long since rescinded their glow,
The stars hang like voyeurs at back alley shows,
an irregular rhythm comes over the land,
regret purged in shivers, shallow breaths, shaking hands.
Each minute grows colder,
more muffled each sound,
as the sand shifts and stirs to make room
in its bed.
I'll oblige, I'll accept. And, rest for a while.