Robert Eilers

Winds blow across a dry, barren land, Bringing a darkness, a cover like sand. Grit in my mouth, grit in my shoe, There is no sky, there is no blue.

The dust of the day flies in my face. Annoying and bitter dissatisfaction stinging my soul. Fury raging in my gut from the barrage on my case. A jumble of voices filling my cranium bowl.

The wind blown trees Make the rustling of leaves Fill the wood with sound From the top to the ground. Birds of the morning flitter and fly