The Drought*

Thought I would write a great poem today
About love or passion, truth or beauty
A ringing paean about the inner life, but
It’s all dried up

Like the ink in my pen - forlorn, untouched
Like the riverbed in summer - thirsting, parched
Like an old man’s skin - brittle, papery, thin
It’s all dried up

Like a rose on a withered branch that cannot bloom
Like a starling with a broken wing that cannot croon
Like the stray stalks of hay a gentle breeze has strewn
It’s all dried up

I lower my pail deeper in the well - I hear it clang
I appeal to my inner rebel - I hear no sturm or drang
Wanly, I remember every song I sang - alas
It’s all dried up

Look! This plaint’s become a poem, well, more or less
Maybe it’s poetry too, when all you do is confess
A spark’s enough to light the tinder, I guess, when
It’s all dried up

4 thoughts on “The Drought*

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