Hot, dry, no water in sight
The sun let's down burning light
For survival you fight, pushing forward with all your might

Skin cracked lungs bathing in sand each breath feels like a meal of niddles impalling you inside tears dry you can't even cry

The journey seems infinite there's no water in sight the wind more celascent than the sun dreams of rivers unfold as our minds are enveloped hope is dead we are doubters in the land of vultures

The vultures circling with winds blowing
A storm of sand envelopes the land. It fills your lungs making you cough and hack all while the sun and sand beat on your back
It gets in your eyes and you can no longer see nor stand, eyes shut, at the mercy of the sand

Stuck to an icy
   history of thought,
   the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
   display of verbs
      that match the pattern:
      language is the matter,
   betraying ourselves with words.
   A tongue to its Work tied
      might make the spider
      think twice before biting;
   those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
   helplessness and somedays
   victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;

                    ∴

Devouring our might as writers,
    we have nothing if not pride;
      We take flight to the deepest parts
        of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
    our linguistic is made of visuals.
      Verily we write with studious care,
        veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
    a symphony of synchronised melody.
      Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
        that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
    link our verses
      and feel deep connections
        when engulfed by depression

The sun comes up too early
dissolving the night from behind
suspending last night's sleepless
in a passing timeless bind

Two worlds outside the window
The new day and the past
Toss the covers and brew the coffee?
or plead with the stars to hold fast.

The dawn shines soft at first watch
casting the world a pale blue
By midday it glares down on burdens
pointing cruelly at an endless queue

But noonday passed behind curtains
holds bothers in dark sympathy
lets correspondence die in assumption
ignores bills to delinquency

Either way the moon hangs devoted
bides his time in faded plain sight
to whisper the patience of nightfall
hold the world in it's pitiful light.