dearth

If beauty could be three colors dancing

And this be a frame of that motion

If not for that beat, the shadow  

That tails the very thought. And lingers

Why would we call it anything else? 

Why would we even look away,

Into the grey abandon of the other side?

Fueling the fated flight

That seeds, at every pause

The perennial plant of dry wells. 

Shouldn't these shoulders die of thirst

Must this madness. Now, a sedated search

That feeds on itself till the end,

And when holes would choke them no more

On vast white banks of empty streams    

They,can only ask-

Who did live.

That this faint tremble 

Has raced out the moths 

Through miles and whirlpools of noise 

The ruckus and the shoves 

To find a death within 

Is, it choosing to be hope.

In the breath of a chance

Of a whisper against the din

As a fight, to retrieve the key 

Otherwise lost in the waters’ own

In the inner sea.

Stay still, as the turmoil upturns pieces of the being 

And burns the wells, measure.  

For under the watch of an unhappy moth,

A flicker of doubt is invitation.

With every grain of sand that falls  

The predator turns into darker shades of sad.

One grey wing to a butterfly,

The ache that never told a story

About the paradigm of dearth.

Born when the first man desired 

A little more.