I think, therefore iambic pentameter

These are the days of dust, the days of sand-
paper sack-cloth scratching off the skin
of flesh to dust, dust; the days of ash,
of burning hallelujahs withered dry.

Remember when the words poured out like water?
When you opened up your mouth and your tongue just moved?
Life bubbled from the hidden springs within;
the water was like wine, and there was was healing.

The wind blows where it wishes. You hear
the sound. And when you don't, the stagnant air
suffocates. The wind blows where it wishes, the murmuring
leaves cry out. You wait your forty days.

Your throat is raw, your lips are parched and swollen
shut. In the burning sand, you still take off your shoes.