As tumbleweeds roll aimlessly across the desert sand,
My heart sinks like my footprints on a barren arid land.
They are solitary in their march, without a friend or foe;
Drawn towards a distant sound the shrill calling of a crow.
The vast plain is claustrophobic, the emptiness a void,
Nothing to lift a spirit, or any hope to be enjoyed.
The tumbleweeds aren't in the desert they dwell deep within my heart;
They are symbolic of the chasm I feel - my need to be apart!
It's easier to be empty, hollow, desolate and sparse,
Than to expend the energy needed to live a complete and utter farce.
For my true essence is the weed that lies withered, dying, dead;
Being blown about the desert like a hacked off severed head!
