Wound

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