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 longing.

A helpless landlord, a poor piece of

real estate;

might as well have it condemned.

Tick tock.

The moon phases,

phasing in, phasing out,

full and unseen,

an unkindness;

a form of torture.

The walls crumble when it wanes,

a cruel cycle.

Barren she becomes.