We, the Seated

We sit in apprehension,
upon the desert sand,
a multitude in apathy,
chewing on our hands.

The watercolor canvas,
succumbing to the night;
blues bleed into yellows,
casting over us, twilight.

We peer skyward to the fire
and to the churning blood,
as freezing raindrops manifest,
trading sand for mud.

Yet we sit there still,
below the weeping sky
casting purple shadows eastward,
in a woeful cloud of sighs.

The water slowly cleanses
the mural of its’ paint.
Only blackness left behind
with cracks of whiteness’ taint.

The mourning heavens never cease
to pour their tortured tears
upon us, still as we remain
cemented by our fears.

The icy mud finally meets
the clavicle and then
proceeds to further rising,
engulfed below the chin.

As water invades the mouth
we, the seated figures, cry
“Our apathy has tempted
fevered vengeance from the sky!”

At last the mural vanishes,
consumed by the lake.
Still we remain seated
as our flesh, the fishes take.