Sand spills in through the windows and doorways,
counting the years and the scars.
Each month, a wind blows,
sweeping the dust and peeling the paint
from the walls; gutting the room.
Pain lingers, it dulls.
A wasteland,
a waste of sand.
Oh, flip the hourglass, would you?
Bring back the time.
Time only takes and I have little left
to give.
In a desert alone this room stands,
uninhabited and ...