0071

the desert sands lifted by the winds travel across in swirls,
as the twisting air moves it in heightening curls,
clouding the sky with light shades of brown,
enough to cover and blanket a town,
a man walks over this sand to go east,
holding a sword to kill the savage beast,
his grip on the handle so tigher his knuckles are white,
as he moves across the sands into the night,
the winds now calm but the moon so full,
wrapping himself up in his blanket of wool,
sleep for the night with dreams of hate,
as the beast now hunted will come to his fate,
killed his sheep the night before,
his last act of revenge as now he will be poor,
his eyes open to the morning dust,
he turns over to feel a breathly gust,
the beast stands before him dripping saliva from the tongue,
as the echos of the morning of his screaming was sung.