The wandering man of the Desert Sands.
Endless.
The son is born to an empty home, born wasted on sedatives and cheap booze. Turn blue by the age of three. Over exposed, carbon-monoxide, smoke. Cooking dreams in your bed pan. Sleeping lifeless in your old shed. Just so his father can't get him. Twisting the tops off batteries. Stealing spark plugs just to escape. Can you feel it swarming. The warmth curls up through your legs and blood drips from your nose. Are you asleep yet? Praying for blood clots just to save an explanation in the emergency room. And we are blackened souls. Trying to find our way home. Every word is a dark road. Every road is a false hope. And sometimes I feel like we're finding something better, but I digress.
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