There are cobwebs on the ceiling,
The tabs are running out of water,
One word rings around the house,
But the response always falters.

Reaching out like flowers growing on walls
Till they meet the next wave of drought,
All the seasons named after sandstorms,
So we cry sand on separate clouds.

Who I am might get forgotten,
Somewhere in the many folds of this desert,
A search where the troupe gives up,
So now both parties are waiting for a visit.

And the distance between doorsteps stretches,
It seems like we're heading to different time zones,
A hello mumbled in a corridor,
Deteriorates to the immediate need to be alone.

I'm looking at the stars searching for the fault,
The poison that made the horses march this slow,
Till we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere,
Unsure if our prides will allow us to further go.