drought & draught

[prana]

it's a parched throat,
labored in sense,
pelted into the very trenches
of emassed steaming chaotic fjord
it's our hearts worn, and so seruptitiously torn
drained like envy to dissipate upon crimson eyelids
there is no we that I can see
any more than you or me
lined up upon capped poles
we wither and die as caged suns
sitting ageless and alone

it's an empty plate and a hundred spoons
it's the break in the clouds
the hills, intermixed and afraid
dragging out the curried tenures
as they drapse a barren crust
a mind in the soft shade with dancers parading about
too many lives, too many deeds,
with the hunger to somehow do more
and I sit motionless
confused
and willfull