Like a desert with no hope for water,
ground of fine grained sand that can blind the eyes,
every pace of toes sun getting hotter,
the place where blather embraced by the wise;
This life of mine is an abandoned place,
no one dared to enter or lay a sight,
so with the blowing dust I hid my face,
yet, still waiting for a saving knight;
Like how desert hopes for bite of winter,
this berk is waiting for a hand to reach.
Until blowing wind starts to whisper,
"to yourself selflove is what needs to teach";
Mayhap the winter is for us to make,
in desert, love for thyself learn to take.
© rabbi