• I stared into old, tired eyes engaged in
    war-ravaged dunes topped with ebony moons
    so sedentary, one could travel on for days
    while still find footprints leading home.
    [But would you let me turn back?]
    Winds play at tossing in hints of desire;
    here and there specks of a forgetful sunrise-
    its rays now eclipsed in darker emotions.
    Sun poison temperatures were replaced
    quickly when mouths wrote this destiny,
    forcing fists up. [Do you hold the key?]
    Three words should've dissipated
    forthcoming sand storms, but my mouth
    puked "I don't know" on the parchment.
    Such a carefully trekked understatement
    was unintentional [at least consciously].
    I wonder what he holds in that fist,
    for I cannot find it in the Sahara of his eyes.
    Once thrilled and terrified with anticipation;
    I now only glimpse at the bruised fingers
    hiding everything I so desperately need,
    a tugging lingers as his caravan awaits.
    So, I stand, staring into aged eyes, cautious of
    the Fate-drunk pens finishing this tale.
    For a more updated look on world travels,
    follow me to book two on isle nine.