I am nothing but the rocks,
among a stretch of sand.
The light the shadow mocks,
when nightfall takes the land.

I am nothing but a dent,
on the surface of the dark.
And when the sun is lent,
I am but the shadow's mark.

I am nothing but a glint,
of a polished, broken white.
The glimmer of a hint,
that something isn't right.

I am nothing but the perch,
for the mangy, feathered beast,
who came too late to search,
for a long forgotten feast.

And I am nothing but the dust,
on which the moonlight flows.
The broken, battered, dried out husk,
through which the desert blows.
The pieces of the puzzle,
made whole and meant as one,
now splintered by the muzzle,
of a long since buried gun.