Barrenness mocks me, but you couldn’t tell, what I see as mockery you rave on as beauty. I will admit though, when the ocean waves crash onto my shores, I see it too.
I’m rare with a flair, if you’re counting how many unsuspecting ships I’ve taken down. I say this with shame that isn’t mine to carry,
I am after all, The Land God made in Anger.
A hostile environment is what they call me, they aren’t lying really. I have no life to give and every effort births a thorny bush that only serves as a reminder of desolace.
I hear the whispers, when they walk through in awe. Striking as my beauty is, they compare me to another land beyond my boarders. She knows no season and is ever green, they say looking around, who knows whether it’s out of pity or intrigue.
When my heart finally can’t carry it all, I roar in pain but you’d never know because you’re too mesmerized that so much magic can be found in a place with so little to give.
I truly am a spectacle, an incomplete and imperfect beauty to behold.
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