Stroll bears slowness and sorrow. Each second is a lifetime for one sauntering a great garden of dunes. Whispers of a hunched beast denied of comfort for too long are lazily sung past wrinkled lips yearning for even a lick of water. The drag of this hummed howl ends and starts again with each burdened step.

   The leering red sky hovers high above these barren plains that could look a trifle better even by just the presence of a puddle to cool the tongue. This mumbling drifter now struggles up a shallow hill of sand. A knee plummets with a soft thud upon the slanted mound. Strain is swimming in its nerves. The will does persist but the flesh may desist.

   Upon the fiery horizon past the sandy peak, the kneeling beast looks ahead with a sluggish rise of the slim chin. The tarnished bowl masking its eyes is plagued with scratches as well as streaks and strokes of blood and rust. Growl becomes of the laborious breath before a single gulp down the throat. Arms feel limp, one of them clutching in its gripping end something slender, sharp and stained a muddy scarlet.

   Left forsaken or itself forsaking company, it waits for a miracle out of this purgatory of painful promenade. What kindness or malice was committed before the long languishing march, this wasteland does not judge it. Still, a semblance of an outskirt into somewhere lush would be ever so fine to wrap its hidden eyes on. Mark the coming end of just seeing this spacious city of sand before and ahead.

   Pray for comfort in lashed tongue beyond one, though this pitiful piece in pause may fail to flail anything sane for thought. Pray that it comes truest to the touch and not the madness of mirage. Aspire the advent of an angel to deliver this demon in despair. To what gods that has yet to loathe it, pray the sorrow away, lone beast.