Unmoist is his tongue.
          Sahara, Sahara, do you recall the things he's done?
          Thy will testitamate of all the wrong songs sung.
           Blind fun; unknowingly following the fallen one.
             Feet bare, sand underneath exposed to the heat.
                      The vultures circle, closer they creep.
                They see only what you choose to be...flesh.
                          -They will pick you like the rest-
                 Know you shrivel by choice, free is your will.
          Why must you stand still, afraid to climb the sand hill?
        Nonexistent mirages in the distance calling in persistence, offering guiltless luxuries; or so they say.
      Be blind or open your eyes, look up, where the king of kings     resides.
     The sun is at its highest, where no shadow can hide. No they  don't dare try, for his father also stands beside.
                              Shining truth on their lies.

Back and forth do I sway, an unfamiliar ripple has disrupted my directionless flow. Curiosity; an attribute I all too well, know.
I am a mallard.
Following the trail of nourishment, it has led me to you...The bread giver.
Beautifully unfamiliar you are, allured by your whisper.
Nearer do I drift so unsure, for you stand ashore, so certain in manner.
I am but a mallard.
Limited is my understanding, for I hardly float, and you stand.
I, on water; you on land. Dusk draws close, be where you need to be, bread giver. The edge waiting for you I will be.
I long for your nourishment. At dawn I will learn to stand with you.
For I am just a mallard.

Why am I so drawn?
You've brought me to a humble halt, as our conversational canvas paints your colorful soul.
Your words fall flawlessly, but cautiously, I step; for you have crossed my path stranger.
Are you a guest?
Time unveils the most puzzling uncertainties.
I do know, in the simplest form; you are art.
Admired by all. Understood by some.
I hear you.

The whispers of the wicked plague the mother,
for her children tread ever so closely to the forbidden garden.
Warn them of the thorns, terra, they are young and know no better.
I ask, be kind.
It is with the gift of choice that enchant their eyes to the blooming rose.
It is with the gift of awareness that curses their undisciplined mind.
I implore, please; be kind.

Fear not, in what is not known, but what is most likely the truth the "blind" man sees and the "healthy" ignore. Only the traveler who ventures into darkness knows exhaustion. Only he knows fear.
Oh weary traveler, fear not, for you have been unscathed. The earth will fade, and your memory along with it, will stay. Your body grows tired but do not cease, for your immortal knows the intentions of the immoral and the immoral only bring the heart disease. Quench yourself.  
Oh tired one, your intentions are good, but the moon only brings illusions; for its shine isnt its own, cast yourself from the obscurity. Seek the son, traveler, your cold nights will end, and once again light will be stowed upon you. You will not see this light, but the warmth it brings.
Oh weary traveler, this journey makes you nervous, but you're driven with passion, and what is passion without purpose.