My thirst cannot be quenched
as I tip the canteen and wait
for a drop, perhaps the last,
that can not and will not satiate.
The well has run bone dry
and it seems there is no hope;
a drought is upon me and
my barren mind goes down slope.
The thought had occurred
that eventually the cup
would run out rather than over
and leave me, all dried up.
© Autumn Siders 2016
Autumn Siders 