One’s Personal Drought


Beginning of such languid calm
Becomes a trickle of moisture,
A teardrop unexpected,
Denied by the hand of determination.

Still

Being but human,
Even as evolution grants porous absorption,
Nature’s capacity reaches maximum.

Where does such overflow go?

Beneath the surface it lurks,
Gathering momentum,
Rising up
Without restraint,
An innocent emotion of nature disrupted
Knows not the distant shores it might need,
The life it might cling to,.

So it goes.
Innocence of hope,
Conditioned faith,
Unexpected fear of failure.

So human we are,
Bent on compartmentalizing,
Ill-equipped to understand
The amorphous origins of weeping,
The nature of its needs
The compassion inherent with its lessons.

Somewhere in the cosmos,
Ideas of moist-release evolve,
Presenting Man with
Tears,
Rain,
Streams,
Rivers,
Oceans.

Such is Nature’s message

Our world
Of cumulus billow,
Of swollen tear ducts,
Where all weeping
Knows one another,
Embracing its joy,
Its tragedy,
Its destiny,
Nature’s teaching.

A drop,
A tsunami,
All as one,
The Universe’s irreversible harmony.

Yet

We continue this cosmic illiteracy
Wallowing in a dearth of denial,

Not accepting that

All have a tipping point

Sometimes referred to as:

The personal purge,

Trying desperately to avoid

One’s personal drought.

For to be without moisture

Is to die.