Perspiration in a drought
can seem so hollow.
Just like river beds in the dry season
wither so fallow.
They whisper and whimper
floods of bitterness
beneath skies of indifference.
The only time I feel quiet is when I shout.
Afterwards I always linger
on the wisdom of plumbing the depths,
of something so shallow,
of something so devoid of reason.
It’s dark to want rain over sun,
but I want to be a swimmer,
of currents and of stress.
I wish I was a bubbling rushing arrow,
but I am dry.
I am stagnant.
The only thing I’m certain of is my doubt.
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Author:
Brimelow (
Offline) - Published: May 28th, 2021 13:14
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 55
- Users favorite of this poem: Rainbow, rebmasters.
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Comments3
I like this poem . Nice use of words
Well written, B. Powerful images.
Thank you. I enjoyed it.
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