Surrounded by a doctor and businessman,
I write my poem in the dark.
A doctorate and profession that smells of money,
I chose days of drought but also days
In which the seeds of imagination are sprinkled.
A tinkle turns into a trilogy; a drought turns into deception.
The basin is above, but each crack in my ravine is captivating.
When was the last time I tasted water?
A waver; a splash of hope. Tip. Tip. Tip. Steady…
But Fate has me locked in the shallowness of a dead river,
standing still while I watch every one miles beyond.
As my feet ache in the same spot,
I lose their shadows in the horizon of the sunset.
Their rowboats carry them along until Angels come and collect.
All I got was a high five or hug along the way,
But no one stays with me.
Just a touch and then they go on;
I’m a milestone for people to reach.
By: Erin Winans
I’m still trying to figure out my purpose in this world. Even if I can’t see it, I know that I have to keep going.
developingpoet 