Walking in the desert,
each minute is a year,
my body is exhausted,
my destination is unclear.

The days burn through my skin;
painful, hot, alone.
The nights ice through my soul
freezing in the unknown

I can't quite figure out,
which is harder to swallow.
The daytime; forced to carry on
The darkness; where I wallow

In the distance there is color,
just barely camouflaged.
Could this be the end to my self-inflicted sabotage?
Relief is at my fingertips; an end to my montage

But it was never really there;
it was merely a mirage.