A- L- O- N- E
These are the letters etched into the sand.
Letters etched by a man, miles and miles
from land.
His hope trickles away,
With every break of day,
Until.
In his hand he finds,
A filthy bottle, not that he minds.
Within the glass capsule holds,
pure, pure water, better than gold.
But as his mouth opens so to drink,
His hope, once again,
begins to sink.
For upon a thorough eyes' gaze
The water's no more than a sandy haze.
Upon the sand the broken man cannot cope,
His eyes, a victim of his own false hope.
With a final breath, a single tear is shed,
The castaway lies still,
stone cold dead.
