I walk through the dunes of sand,
leaving impressions of my feet,
which does not live longer than some petite hours,
wiped by the tempest or the scarcely showers.
It's a vast desert,
a desert of patterns and randomness - up and below,
I look up to the highest sky, counting the infinite stars,
and look down, counting the patterns of the randomness which are.
It's tough to walk bare feet,
for an endless journey,
in the heat of the sun or in the winter's fleet.
My alligatored sheath awaits the heavy pour,
to wipe the random patterns,
and lead me to the much awaited shore.