Among a thousand threads you tore,
the finest one you held no more.
You called the river wild, untrue,
and chose a desert’s shade of blue.

The mirage now slips, the light grows thin,
no oasis waits when you walk in.
You left the trees, their sheltered track,
for cactus thorns that bite you back.

Strange, isn’t it, how winds conform,
a gentle breeze becomes a storm.