Poem 25 came to a well that had desiccated. When one attempts to continually go back to the well for ideas and inspiration, you sometimes find that you reach the bottom and there is nothing to be had but mud. Luckily, with a little time, the slightest trickle allows for a newfound rush of water. Thank you to Haley H., for knowing full well that even the consistent pull the bucket up empty from time to time.

 

“Desiccate”

Desiccan, desiccant.

Stop and read Immanuel Kant.

Irrespective of our wishes,

he contends the world is what is.

Reality, hinges on notions plucked,

from thoughts and concepts,

default constructs.

Fashioned perhaps, in a brain,

within our skulls, contained.

 

Who could argue the enigma?

Seeing into or past direction,

requires being outside perception.

 

But, alas we are trapped within.

 

Measure fully what you think,

reality flows from instinct.

Gut check the things that you know.

They aren’t, they can’t,

not a chance, they’re so.

 

So, solace then,

when death allows escape.

 

Tethered, in this world and next,

betwixt the madness that infects.

 

I yearn, for cessation of the suffering.

 

The world as we see it, needs to desiccate.

The world as I see it, needs to desiccate.

 

The floods are coming just in time.

Dryness follows.

Truth sublime.