To many blows have made a hole
The wound where all the blood
Of poetry poured out
Onto the ground
Drained she waits
For desert winds
To dry the tears
Into salty grains
Of rolling sand
Her body wrinkles
And contorts just like
A tortured scream
Into the night
The moons takes
Pity the man and turns her
Into the only tree
That can survive this moral desert
And she reaches out
An olive branch
