grit

the wind whistles through the stone outcropping hanging over the arid plains

the lone call of the hawk as it circles high above the varied shades of brown below

it is there the heartache blends itself into the vast world of undulating sweetness of sin

far away from the wagging tongues of naysayers preoccupied with outward appearances

a brutal truth laid bare for those brave or stupid enough to seek things best left unsought

in the stinging grit on the furnace blast winds hidden in the sting of the scorpions scurrying about

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