The Desert Prophet

There is beauty in shades of brown:
the varying skin tones, that differentiate,
segregate, but so few embrace, rich copper and
the burnt brown of mesquites dying with dehydration,
while the Asarco mines pump murky water by the gallons.
The smoke of the masses' cigarettes bruise the sky,
A sickly tan with hints of green, all that remains
of the pines that once adorned the purple mountains' majesty.
The off-white tones of desert sand, like life, a beach
without water, flecked with the silver mica,
that catch the sun's impersonal gaze and redirects
it at the desolate wanderers of this unfortunate city.
In another desert, the boys fought for six months
to secure the oil that now streams, a crayon streak,
from the rusty exhaust pipes of thousands.
Smoke the consistency of a mocha latte chokes the air,
while the fire costs the government billions,
insecure in their homes, no one cares:
for as it was written
so shall it be;
Ash to ash
Dust to dust.