Dominican Republic

Growing as a blade of grass,
Parched of rain from Heaven,
Dry and withered at end of day,
Without a scent of hope.

Neglected, lost, without a friend,
Alone, unaided all the while,
Lost for words to cope;
The truth is but illusion there.

The life of one so caught,
Stuck in a web of discontent,
Without a mission pure,
But in the distant stands a stallion

White and gleaming in moonshine,
Ready for the battle fierce,
To take the reigns, and realign;
Watch the rain dance begin in time.