Filling for years, of rain, unchanged, unchained.
Overcame the droughts with beating quakes,
to bring upon the springs, intramural steam.
The current may alter yet funneling flows within one body…
until drained to dry, fallen on flats, this supply never to be cycled.
Some days felt and flourished, still moist-less, arid…
A barren waste, the dirt left behind fuels grievous distaste.
A better man to a bitter being, never blind, never seeing.
A heavy heart subject to storms and blown away like sands of the Sahara.
A reserve to the reserved unless I pitch this nature a curve.
The new bed I lay, smoldering my softness, procrastinate my coffin.
Molten my weakness, stoned to hide the flesh.
Dismissive of standards which the wild consistently tests.
Destructive in consequence of the inverted, introverted and soon to be converted.
Within my chest… devoid, desolate, forgotton and deserted.