Work In Progress

Standing alone in a sand storm

hair whipping, eyes barely making out shapes

and watering, grains in lashes

mixing with tears.

Weeping wails engulfed in wind gusts

a small frame taking a beating one blow after another

gladly swaying with the directions.

Something to move me!

A gasp in through my mouth

face pointed toward the covered sky,

I don’t understand where I am,

dull oranges of where sun used to be.

I feel a hand grab mine through the dust

and hear whispers of the truth beyond the wall,

“joy in the grit.”