Apr 2012
I sit on a
broken wasteland of
gray dust,
willing water to
run from my fingers.
But
my veins are
cracked,
desiccated.
My body is a
husk,
flaking away.
Will you restore me?
broken wasteland of
gray dust,
willing water to
run from my fingers.
But
my veins are
cracked,
desiccated.
My body is a
husk,
flaking away.
Will you restore me?
