A Desert of My Own Making
I am in a Desert of my own making; I am lost in a wilderness of my own creation. For so long I have waited here, unwillingly unable to move. Camped in the lifeless land of my own soul. If only I would start to dig, if only I would begin to loosen the sand of my apathetic discontent. For there have been stories of life giving water, tales of a fountain that has no end, rumors of an oasis that will forever quench my seemingly endless thirst. O if only I would become undone, if only I would stand and persue that river of life. Then I would be free, and the endless waste land of my soul would become abundant with life, abounding in growth, and over run with newly sprouting joy. The fields of my heart would be found alive, grass plains of rest would cover the landscape, mountains of simplistic solitude would surround the lush valley, flowers of beauty would bloom in the meadows of unraveled peace, trees of wisdom and knowledge would stretch as far as the eye could see, and rivers of healing
