There is an old dreadful tale

of a man in need of water.

He woke up in the desert,

the day growing ever hotter.

His attempt at crossing the sands

was something he deeply regretted,

as, in the shade of his felled plane,

he lay very still and sweated.

His mouth grew dry, then parched,

his tongue grew foreign in feel.

Even in the shade of his plane

he felt as his lips began to peel.

He thought he’d make his way east,

when the sun finally sunk low.

But as one horizon dimmed,

the opposite began to glow.

With the setting of the first sun,

another rose in its place.

The man hadn’t the fluids to cry.

He’d never leave this place.