When No Clouds Line The Horizon

No signs of rain, yet still he waits,
Eyes upturned, wishing a pouring heaven.
Yet nothing his way does flow besides,
The wind from a desert once glen.

In his eyes he has seen the Ocean,
But feet never left his fallow land.
Dying is the unborn, as pregnant Earth,
Is parched as thirsty sand.

If tears could quench his thirsty Land,
The Rivers would, an Ocean be made.
But look what angry sun has wrought,
For tears have dried unmade.

He stands over the roots of,
A Tree ancient and knotted.
As he looks away and over the forest vale,
Where the dusky woods have rotted.

Entranced he moves, towards salvation,
When a buzzing awakens afar.
He turns to see the ague of grain,
For their due, have come from far.

With sad eyes over the Locusts wild,
And lips cracked into a last grin.
Over flung he, the catcher of Rye,
Into the blighted fen within.

The Wind...

Sinking into ripples like the winters Breeze,
cold light that fades, to oblivion like me,
you shall never grace, your dead storm with my sound,
as you rise in new ashes, my nexus drowns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


~ Shraddha

Miser's Attention...

In empty words that broke and fell,
like water running up a paper mill,
you shattered my body, like porcelain bones,
scoffed and frowned and swallowed me whole.

And the distaste, so meaningless, I left in your mouth,
evident, in the apathy, when you drooled me out.
And when i wriggled lifelessly and struggled to breathe,
your lips bid me luck, eyes wouldnt care to see.

Turn to magic, your fingers, and everythings gold.
But when they flinched in disgust, they cast me in stone.
Yet i follow like a fool dancing in your light,
as you guide me into darkness, to lose me this night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~ Shraddha