letters from the wasteland

Should i fall out of favor
of the paths in my life
to chase a feather in the wind

Yet again to wander
the wasteland that beckons
yielding the tears of bitter alkali
that one alone knows

The apotheosis of all deserts sings
as the smallest grain of sand
holds the promise of an eternal spring
nigh within grasp
and never within sight

And the invisible sun that shorns its light
bakes the ground
but a light that never
never warms
and still the feather spirals upon the thermals
points yet to the nimbus beyond the horizon

I am a traveller within this time and space
inside this terrible desperate beauty
All that has ended and all that has passed
are witnessed mutely as they are set in stone
their beauty uncompared
preserved for all eternity

I am called to sing the songs
whispers of so many lost stories
that the bones of golgotha can only cast
to the winds that sing their testimonies
to speak of stories
of the thread that never finishes
the tapestry unfolded within
of another epic
told only in secret
as we call to it silently
last stand, last stand, this is the last stand

Dancing high above the crowds
in the loneliest of places
is a silence that calls out
last call, last call, this is the last call

Now to cast my letters in the sand

Now to set my letters in the stone

Now to finally send
the letters from the wasteland