war and glory, reinvention

This week's poem prompt was a prose poem with guidelines and structure.

#22 by okapi

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw lights, cameras, overlarge plastic containers, and ants. It was as if earth, fine and granular, had become water, and water did not exist and had to be invented, yet air persisted in whipping and cried grainy tears when its waves did not crash like they should. You told me it was nothing special, but the war against the elements, the fans, the umbrellas, the misters and de-misters, told me you lied. Couldn’t imagine? You do me an injustice. I can imagine everything. Animal, vegetable, mineral. Horrible, banal, sublime.

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw another desert because there is no such thing as destination or arrival or satisfaction. Not for the likes of me. It was as if I were wandering purposeless forever, but at least the scratches fade. Some scars erode, and others are half-hidden by shifting dunes. You told me everything would be fine. Liar. You didn’t know. You did your best. I couldn’t imagine half a century, but there it went like precocious child star become barely legal become sexpot become vixen become MILF become grandma become the bones beneath the blooming desert rose.

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw my pen had run out of ink and my penmanship was horrid and I was ignorant of the animals, vegetables, and minerals I should encounter. It was as if a drunken scarab beetle had crawled across the page, swerving, swearing, dropping its housekeys in a vain effort to call it a night and sleep it off in the margins. You told me not to slouch. You told me it wasn’t your fault. I couldn’t go back if I tried. The best is yet to come. Just ask the ants.