Second

If a dream were a sunrise
Warming the sands of a desert,
The journey would be an ill contrived,
Dehydrated present.

Often burned and distressed
In that unforgiving stare,
Grinding teeth and obsessed
With breathing the gritty air.

The heated day gives way
When the night grows cold,
And the moon shines to betray,
Eclipsing dreams of old.

Dry eyes and dusty shoes
Decide to dwell,
Despite dim candles
Burning the night without fail.