The set in the stuff of the moribund
The sand of the rise of the tides
These memories come out in strange shapes
Offering mirages in the vivid sun
Looks like your idea of the image is all that stays
It's derived from the dealing of thirst for different shapes
And question mark only comes when you reach a full stop to your journey
Did you die tentatively, or were you always desolate and alone?
Draped in your own shadows, billowing?
That's the curtain call.