He wrote in fractured letters in the sand,
Carving his life in cursive scrawl,
Deep and clear into the ghosts of rocks.
Each morning came he once again,
To write upon the fresh washed page,
Sanctified by waters salty as his tears.
Each day he carved, and scrawled his theme,
Onto the lonely landscape by his door,
As if demanding of the skies why it was so.
Until one day he stopped and wrote no more,
Tired of the questions left unanswered there,
Instead he stayed within his silent walls.