The bed of thorns, rely in pain, lies beneath a single sky. Torn apart into million parts, struggling to get a side. There halts a death bed, laid aside a river bed.
The soft sand and thorny bushes, shows the persistance of perseverence, in all trustworthy fake turbulance. Disappointing tears runs in a flow, admiring and struggling in this world upright. Where it tunes the winds with grace, and heart of arrogance.
Speechless words, energy diminished along the journey. Left with the only flow of the river's stream. Halting behind the river bed, to know how amenity fills it with disgrace.