Babblings.

The rivers' started turning dry; your lips, getting burnt by the scorching hot wind. Scarced by water and plastered by the dust, would you let yourself suffer more? To whom shall they be? To the soul who's ever-longing, listening to those heartbeat faraway in a distant shelf. Or to the one you yearned for a million light years, but shows no sign of returning? Are you waiting for your haughtily self-proclaimed saviour? Or to the one who stands mightily to self-worth? Grey skies' far from returning. The mist to quench you un-dry's still at a point of no return. Pick-up or you shall never have the chance again.