I’m dying of thirst, painfully parched
Scouring the arid desert of my mind, looking for
Lost answers and missing pages amidst the dunes I wrote you a poem, miss, I hope you like it.
But it’s rainy season now, the droplets of the destitute drizzle down
One after another, like windowpane races in mom’s Camry, the clouds’ fallen angels
And these God-forsaken Lucifers avoid my tongue like the plague
Procreating with the sand around my sneakers, depriving my depraved mouth of
One sip of salvation, “Jesus Walks” is no replacement for the rectory I’m sorry ma, I missed mass this week.
The thirst is all too real. So is the solitude.
As the soulless sun rays seep into my epidermis, I surrender my endeavor.
Archaeologists are not the archetypes of perfection, and some things are better
Folded between the wrinkles of passing time and withering memory
Quarters beneath the couch cushions of yesterday, never to be claimed again, and so
I wept like Him. I weep like Him.
And lo and behold my lachrymose lamentation
Provides the potion for my pangs,
The saline storm dispatches savior soldiers down my cheeks
As I nest the nativity of my own nourishment.
The taste of independence is… bittersweet at best.
And I continue to wander, wishing for a well to quell
The damned duration of my dry spell,
I trudge forward open-mindedly, vigilant for my oasis, but
When you’re dying of thirst,
Even the tears of others will do.