“Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink” — S.T Coleridge. — Trickling down arid throat.
Dearer to me than pearls of black.
Yet my throat lies bare.
Savoring whatever comes forth. The last drop slides down slow.
Stop it may, but it won’t.
The flood never comes forth.
Dries in air, does my throat. A memory too faint.
To savor, I want…