The desert welcomed a little rain, but the drought reclaimed its throne. The story went on. I flipped through the pages and realized I had forgotten how to write; words faded into dust, and a part of me died.
Surrounded by serpents, how could the rain have known that the desert sits on empty promises. You voyaged through its heat; what a treacherous ride it was, and the cold-blooded snakes started to attack. Their smiles faded, and their intentions creeped out; their rot and filth conquered the desert. Lost and wasted, it was in the wasteland.
Serpents – of no honor, no dignity, no spine. Serpents – that bow down to the anti-Christ; a creature of no brain, no glory, no recognition; a preacher with no god, just fragments of words hanging on loose threads.
I look up at the clouds and wonder, does sickness precede disappointment, or does disillusionment cause the disease?
I remember how the rain closed its eyes and let the fall take it, thinking the light might save it, but their hands disappeared into thin air.
Dear, your hopes tried to hold you in place, but your tears were far too heavy. You fell, and when you bled, the traitors smiled. Tears glued your eyes shut, and you let out a faint whisper, “Et Tu, Brute.”
Dear, even the devil appears as a light, fooling weaklings who sold their lives. He comes bearing gifts that lead to their demise. Do you think Judas will get a share of heaven after he allowed Satan to enter him?
A man is no man without moral ground. You stand on pillars of honesty. Why do you waste away among the wicked and corrupt? They, too, will one-day plea, “we are not the ones you want; we are the ones who led you to him.”
whose smiles can barely hide their decaying souls.