Dry

Don’t ask me to cry any more.

I’m empty, parched by your thirst,

any moisture has been bled away.

If I sweat out a tear would it belong to me

or be one more payment for you to claim.

Turmoil winds brought arid kiss,

meanly hitting the corners of my eyes.

Now my soul’s a desert with dead hurts rotting away,

a dried up passion, crumbling then  lifted in breeze

to be paraded in triumph.

I lick my lips in vain for a small drop that may linger

searching in panic hope but you don’t let any drip or

spill over the edge of your grasp.

You will not even give me that?

Just more cracks to find as bitter skin peels.

Soon only bones will be here to pick on,

still you circle overhead.

I cannot fulfil this pursuit,

so move on to a deeper well,

fly away in an emotional swarm.

Leave the lifeless.

I’m dry, so very dry.

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