Petrified air sits frozen in the sweltering, deserted city of sand.

Its horizon the same in all directions, rural settings look crowded to this muted kingdom.

The first gust in millenniums whips the stirring sand into a fit of hisses, catching Silent-opolis off guard.

Layers upon layers of white grains tremble through a blender powered by growing wisps of breeze.

As they grow, so do the floating income of frighteningly flocculent cloud clutters from the sky.

With a deep rumble from its depths, the layers now apparent were the ones shedding a couple tears from above.

The hovering billows have the unwelcoming tint of a dampened cemetery grave.

What was dampened now was the sea of sand.

The city of sand received unjustified violence. 

Peace put to its end, the desert rested in anything but peace.  

This poem is its grave.