The Scent of Water
The Scent of Water
The air is dry, bone-dust dry,
carrying the odor of despair,
shimmering in its pseudo sky
dreams of what was never there.
Eyes, dry-crusted, cannot discern,
delusion seems the kinder fate
when all is lost in flameless burn
the scent of water come too late.
Tongues in mime-like motion seek
brief sustenance of drying dew
none are strong, none are weak,
none too many, none too few.
Waiting on that unfelt touch
amid the false – and true
nature’s subtle stroke of brush
the scent of water - overdue.
For Faye Gibson contest
“The Scent of Water”
7/6/2014
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