The Harvester

I would routinely catnap,
In my bedraggled hammock,
Dangling from a pillar of the porch,
Which stood in swirling red sand.

My intuition acted as my compass,
As I would trek through the wind,
Across the battered landscape,
That held no life other than mine.

I would walk alone for miles,
The weight of my soles,
Taxing my strength.

But nothing pushed me as hard as the silence,
Nothing pushed me as hard as the lead in my empty soul.

Eventually,
With luck and ardent conquest,
I would come upon the prints,
Of where someone else,
Had rode into the wasteland,
And never returned.

I'd track them until they stopped,
Then I would dig with my hands,
And harvest whatever valuables,
Filled their sandy pockets.

Often times,
I would come home with burlap sacks filled full with Loot.
Tons.
Enough to barter for whatever I desired.

I subdued myself into ignoring,
Who it might have been that I pilfered.
By telling myself,
That it was simply irrelevant because my
Survival was at stake.

If I had no goodies,
Then I wouldn't go to market.
If I didn't go to market,
Then I would not hear another voice,
Until the next year,
When the market came around again.

And not hearing another voice for so long,
Would force me to jump,
From the red rock cliffs,

Because doing so,
Would be the only alternative,
To facing the torturous fate,

Of hearing the uninterrupted echo of my own
Hollow voice
While I steal from the dead
For an eternity.

Long story short,
I was a rich man until I died,
Rich from easy grave robberies

But damningly,
Every day, after I returned to the shack,
Collapsed in my canvas,
And placed my hat over my eyelids,

I felt the poorer than any of the few men

Still alive.