There is water for the traveler of this desert.
Chained in pessimism, unbroken for two years.
Withered and rusted, though its strength knows no bounds.
He cannot drink, he watches, with the aid of pure eyes.
Thirst evapourates his mind, although disturbingly he holds the key.
A pocket so deep, he dares not reach through empty space.
This water is eternal, only if he finds the courage to drink.
Fearing dried oceans of past, he waits to drown in the hourglass.
Death savours victory, whilst life devours in greed.
So the sands pass faster, and he drinks from his tears.
Beauty is seen no more, as eyes are plucked for someone else.
But we will just say it was a mirage, spare his mind.
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