I make a house of sand 
after years of long lost meanderings into oblivion. 
On the day of salvation, the river comes and leaves a stink of blood and bones. 
I don't drown. I don't die. 
I find myself as a beggar wandering the streets of faith begging for some hope, knocking the doors of the invisible Lord that can turn all dreams to ashes if I speak blasphemy.
I beg him to return what is mine,
I beg, beg, beg and then he answers my call.
He answers my call,
only to put me in a breathing graveyard where souls grapple with themselves to find a way to justify the greatness of the Lord.
He asks me to lie to them,
to sing his eulogy to the one who made me,
the one who matters, the one who deserves to live,
but the one who is a prisoner in this house of death.
So for years I lie. For years I die. For years I try.
And then one day the river comes in the afternoon,
stealing the last drop of hope from the eyes of the prisoners,
putting them into their last sleep.
I don't sleep. I only watch in disbelief.
The last wave of life lashing the shores of existence,
time trickling down like last tears of innocence as the white angel turn into ashes.
Now I wait for the river every night.
When it rains I go to the shore to taste the river for one last time.