My fort folded beneath a crumpled pane -
a window that envisioned truth,
which stretched far beyond all horizons.
My mind then forfeited its fathomable fervor.

Today, I trample with aching, sun-burned feet
along dusty trails of chipped limestone -
cowhide sandals ripping from my left heal.
Weary, my course has grown without direction.

Now, tears soak my salt-sprinkled sash -
my soul each day withers upward, skyward.
Tomorrow, I shall scream for my copper kettle,
one that could collect forgivable, moral sins.