Quicksand

Dust, in the desert of a stained home
Crowding the vacuum of the void,
Vultures swooping towards his heart
As he shivers, from the gust
Of curdling sorrow
Carried, on the black wings,
Singed from the fires of perdition,
The door, frozen in the world’s collapse,
Nothing to see here, they all abandoned
The suffering immersed in spider’s chaos,
He sinks, further into the black of the sand
That swallows him, in shattered pieces
With no intention, of reaching out
For that outstretched palm,
The lights burnt out,
Long ago.