, , ,

One drop of water 
pooling as I long to
imbibe from that crease,
yet upon my own feet
I bend to stand and her
trodden frame is left
embraced by her memories
while I blister, injured
by my own decree
Each forethought is weak, 
the feeblest ambition
I set forth to seek
until that day she speaks
and I am not cut down
Meanwhile I am swollen,
awaiting the momentum of those
grand schemes and self ransoms
all because of a choice
all because of a direction
I am held prisoner
and thirsty