Dry spell

Slowly.

Mystery and doubt,

everything within,

shivers. 

Falls, it trembles.

Nothing can be said.

Done,

so grey,

so unreal, 

that the imagination can't take over.

It can't be felt.

It’s so barren.

It’s a sea of sand,

of little grains that stays intact,

without movement.

The search is dry and frail.

There is no wind,

only the sun above.

Burning our scalps,

gnawing our skull.

You try skipping time,

as the wait is slow and tedious.

And still you sense it,

taking it all away,

robing your insides to get into you.

(August 1, 2014)

FPSA