A Thirst For Words

In the desert of my mind Are nomadic dunes of ineptitude. I traverse these dunes Seeking words 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 Of hopelessness. 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 Greedily. So it is my thirst for words Is momentarily, Yet inadequately, appeased.