The cold wastes of nowhere are a desert of dreams, and the wanderers there never see the beginning or end to anything. They are cursed, thrown from one mindless rational to another. Wearied, hopeless, I know no reason they stay other than a dreadful suspicion that in that tossing and turning reality, they have forgotten what is real, what is up and down, light or dark, good or evil. In ever shifting sands, one would think theyād hunger for solid ground, but they persist in their desert of the mind. I fear for their souls, and I pray for rain.
Drabble: Desert of the Mind
Tale Told 