A THIRST FOR WORDS
In the desert of my mind
Are nomadic dunes of ineptitude.
I traverse these dunes
Like a thirsting man after water.
My search is slow and ponderous
As my feet sink deeply
Into sands of frustration.
Drops of imagination
Fall from my brow
And are absorbed in the same sands.
Cresting a barrier of mediocrity
I see a puddle of liquid letters
Left by some recently passed storm.
I race to this source of inspiration
As quickly as my inability will allow.
Kneeling beside this tiny pool of possibilities
I cup my trembling hands
And scoop out the last swallow of satisfaction.
I bend my face low
To drink in the sweet elixir of purpose,
But, in so doing, I lose my balance.
I splay my hands to catch myself
And thus release the vagrant liquid,
Sending it back to the earth.
I watch disbelievingly
As tiny grains of discouragement
Darken under the stain
Of lost expectation.
“No!” I cry as I snatch up the sand
Now wet with the dew of my hope.
Would that I could
Suck the very moisture from each particle
That sticks to my hands in damp mockery.
The refreshing coolness of anticipation
Evaporates much too quickly.
In the stifling air of despondency
The grains dry and cascade form my hands
In a slow waterfall of contempt.
The realization of my fate
Comes to me in a wave of despair.
Anguish wells inside me
And pours forth in tears
They stream down my cheeks
And breach the dam of futility.
They then pass with a salty sting
Over my immobile, cracked upper lip.
My tongue darts about
And absorbs the drops of destitution
So it is my thirst for words
Yet inadequately, appeased.
Copyright © Bruce Schuhart | Year Posted 2012
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