Dusk or dawn,
the sky appears
a departed paste.
In rays of sun or any
phase of the moon - no
celestic flavor renovates
this atmospheric waste.
Thunders of tender
only to come
with
hails of hate;
Droughts of desire
teased
in flakes of fond,
but quenched
only by
the quicksand of heartache.

Ought I continue
to drift along this
desert plain, what prayer will
give pause
to this downpour
of parched pain -
the boundless cloudburst, axed,
giving flow to the acid rain - as tears
upon my
face?
What prayer will,
give haste
to this life
of undying mistake -
the endless existence, estranged,
giving pause to abandon - as we relinquish
through our
disembrace.