After death,
mediocre paperweights rule on the pages of life.
The leading light will wander in ruins for centuries.
Hot winds spray the sparking dust on smooth posts,
desert picks up the artist trapped in confusion.
I pray for the rains.
Give me a chance.
I want to replay the forgotten script.
Can you spread a blanket on the wounds that were not mine?
Nobody gives a call.
They were overshooting the quicksand.
