Traversing the Sands
With a gun in my hand
Hope on my back
I walk on through the sand
Surviving my plans
Through the rain, loss and cold
I bury the mould
Everything that I was
So deep, all because
I lost my levity
I found a travesty
I lay my back in the sand
Questioning the gun in my hand
With sight, sound and air
I see what I am
I hear my only despair
I feel the sand in my hair
Through deprivation of self
I picture my wealth
I summon power to breathe
I drop my gun and I leave
The rain turns to storms in our hands
Our coming karma demands
It’s only us that have done this
We traded our heritage and bliss
For the season of our hell
Copyright © Ian Petch | Year Posted 2006
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