Wasteland

He was a walking wasteland,
Laying the hand of death
On the weary passerby.
From atop his throne of
All the broken bones of
Those who came to pass,
He collected their souls,
To try to heal the wounds
Of his broken mind.

With his trick of mirages,
He cloaked himself as
A sweet oasis needed to
Survive in the empty wasteland.
He would feed her,
What he made her see as
Fruit of the forbidden tree,
Little did she know,
Twas the bones of
Those who had come to die.
Thinking her thirst quenched,
She drank from his hands,
The precious liquid of life.
Knowing little of her demise,
He offered her a handful of sand,
Increasing her amount of thirst,
Adding to his want of being needed.

As time passed,
For the girl inside
The miraged wasteland,
Her drying eyes began to see.
What it was he tried so desperately
To hide from the eyes of those
Weary would pass on by.
There were holes in his mirage,
Hidden imperfections,
He swore he could hide.
With barely the strength to stand,
Fear of his sudden return,
Weighing heavy on her mind,
She picked and tore at these
Imperfections, revealing,
The lies that were deep inside.

She saw the barren wasteland,
She watched the water turn to sand,
Tears of forlorn and despair,
Marked its path down her tattered cheeks,
As the fruit held in her hand,
Shriveled up into the bones,
Of others just like her.

Knowing death was waiting just outside,
She ripped, she tore, she destroyed,
This oasis he had masked her towards.
She screamed at the blood on her hands,
She cried as the desert became the land.

With a resolve stronger than his mirage,
She ran.
Beyond the tattered remains,
She mourned the loss of others,
She pitied the ones who decided to stay.
Running out of the broken mirage,
She left, never looking back to
The false comfort of the oasis,
Being rid of this man,
The barren Wasteland.