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.


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