Land Forsaken

A rusted, crooked cross stands
atop a rocky hill of scorched switchgrass.
There, a dwindling red sun casts its pale light.
Feel the light gnawing at your delicate skin,
a churning sickness in your curling stomach.
Linger awhile in that taste of agony,
and you just might hear them –
the desolate, sacrificial prayers of the dead.
You might find a knuckle or a tooth
long abandoned in the toxic soil.
You might smell the black, ancient blood
of “saints” congealed upon the cross.
Man might willfully forget the misdeeds
of forefathers who claimed divine authority,
but land forsaken always remembers.