Created, are desolate dunes,
for slow gait and ponder,
what did you expect except a sandstorm,
burnt soles and a heart of wonder,
is there anything left, but introversion,
mysticism, and vanishing asunder?
She appears as a horizon of lifted dust,
scathing at the atmosphere for a caress.
Loves me through her pain,
anticipating my wholeness,
even if in and through me,
again and again.
Intimately unselfish,
angelic and devilish,
salted lips and hurricane of chase,
it’s not too hard to see her desperation.
Kohl, looks better on the deserts eyes,
the salt of longing,
makes a far better canvas for tears.
W.E.
lonerloaner 