The result is inevitable
The brittle bundle that it becomes

A strum of the banjo
A lone note
Fragile and feeble as it hums

And so the tumbleweed rolls
Its prickly claws hungry for redemption
From the ineluctable fate
The cursed dole

Among the dust-filled air and crimson sky
The lack of time is hard to deny
So with the eerie creaking of the abandoned gate

Out the tumbleweed goes
The echo of the deafening silence follows