At some point we all feel like aliens in the place we once called home.
The place that is so instilled in us that we know it by each of our senses. Even without sight, we know it by the smells and every crevice and hiding spot. Take away our hearing and still, we taste the winds that once carried us.
So, when did it all turn to ruins. How can the soil where our seeds were sewn turn barren. Where there was so much growth, now only resides tender reminders of what used to be and what never was.
We remember flourishing forests, yet now as our eyes are opened, there are only toxic sands. Void of life. Empty of nutrients.
Was it negligence? Minutes turned years of laxity? I retrace the steps I once walked in, and still I see my imprints engrained in the Sandhills, without interruption. I was here, it was well, but now, look at this wasteland—no love can further take root here.
