The Desert wind, wounding to the bone,,
Gently lifts the solitary of the desert
Sends its spiraling downwards to the road,
it joints all the other fallen sand
Lying there withering, dying, was one in air,
but now dull, brown as death claims slowly,
The blowing wind lifts his hair,
Sending a sigh from his neck to toes….
He sits on rock and look into the bleak horizon,
In its lackluster colors of sadness...
He bows his head, cupping his face with palms
Dried fingers biting into his cheeks
his thoughts, his mind turmoil,
his heart completely broken, shattered beyond repair,
He feels the warm tears on his fingers,
For its soothing, its comforting to finally cry..
His sobbing goes unheard,
all along in his own private hell,
Trying to feel himself free...
He is paying for the things he never done,
So when are going to stop breaking his heart..
Posted By AZAD TIRUR to bloomingdale at 9/19/2010 08:21:00 AM