I had built it all on a fact. A fact that was more of a wish. A wish that was a clump of sand. Sand that poured from my hand.

Now to what do I turn? When I thought I was following the way. Can I hear the wind off the mountain? Can I see the break of the forever day?

In the land of a burning thirst. Upon my weary legs and heart. I lift my eyes to a sun that blinds. Left feeling the sound of my distance.

To where is a shore, a river? I can not commit to a direction. Which leaves me retreading my fading pace. Where shall I rest or where shall I fall?

Laying in dust is a cold bed. Laying in fear is a fevered dream. Laying in death is an end to it. Yet thus the sphere breaks upon my face.

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