i.
the sand is one, shifts
sand in grains, we
stand upon
a structureless and seething silence -
whispers, grains of silicate,
in constant motion,
crystals. hard;
the dunes are soft and shifting.
dunes that the winds walk,
sands in slow wildness.
ii
when this decays, dust
grey and sterile...
dry as the
plains that thoughtlessness has desiccated,
the self, drained of silliness,
was star-turned madness,
whispers. gone,
its husk outlined upon a
funerary slab that
darkness drabs.
iii.
on my horizon
hang the new stars,
stars that form
torn constellations of a past and
now forgotten violence.
there are no scents, now,
sighing; air
and old sandstone stand here, song
of a dead singer, sung
in a dying world.