In the spirit of nihility
I walk amongst the wastes of drought again
Waiting for atonement, waiting for the rain
Honeyed lips once tasted sweeter
When you were my sonnet
And I, your balladeer
The mountains will still be
This forest reminds me
Of the time when you were here
The bastard pariah
of sullen sadness
Soil or clay, seeped into madness
And even if fiber could sprout from desire
It would only dry out to be used as the pyre
Of love's embrace with no solitude in hand
I have submitted to this place
And I now gaze upon the romantic infertility of sand