Longing

This fountain is not here to slake your thirst.

The drip drip drip of the faucet drills down

Into your porcelain forehead,

Deep into the recesses of memory,

Where long buried slights and mistakes dwell.

This fountain is not here to cleanse you.

The constant thread of water spills downward,

Disappearing into a cyclone of emotion

And regret for unmendable errors.

This fountain is not here to answer your questions.

The bone dry creaking metal of the pump handle

Burrows into your soul and opens you

To doubt and pain and imagined loss.

This fountain is not for you.

I built this fountain for me alone.

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This entry was posted in Poetry by bgm1969. Bookmark the permalink.

About bgm1969

This blog is updated by a guy who’s overweight, silly, Liberal, spiritual rather than religious, infatuated with beauty and grace, musically blessed, and always changing.

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