Thirst

The page was dry

waiting to be

quenched

with liquid

words.

The fountain

of thought

had little

to offer.

And nothing could

sate the throaty

desert

burning

for relief.

It took too long

to make it,

it took too long

to fake it.

So the page dies

the letters won’t

stick.

The fingers won’t

work.

The page is

the Sahara

and the words

are nomads.

Choosing not to camp

here today,

on this barren

landscape.