by M. G. Baskerville-King
Dark winds blow,
across the desert of his soul,
stirring up the dust
of thoughts grimed with must,
Dead dreams flutter past,
tattered remnants caught in the blast,
the withered husks of projects begun
lie desiccating beneath the too bright sun
of a mind without direction,
suffering an infection
of abject wastefulness,
never knowing what's best
for this sad creature cursed
with a heart fit to burst...
Hope still with him stands,
supportive on these burning sands,
A firm hand in the small of his back,
whispered words "take up the slack..."
Hope points toward the far horizon,
He strains for what to set his eyes on,
a small oasis nestles there,
faint through the cloying, dusty air,
"There, my friend, does Your future grow,
where it takes You, only You can know"
He takes a step toward his fate,
with a nervous, tremulous, faltering gait...