we
who are let loose
by the facts that fell short
by the figments that aren't unreal
and the selves that never spoke
will we never learn?

to get that water first
for she had sensed his thirst
a little bowl in her dry hand
she crossed all that land, but
the water that emerged in that bowl
would never quench his parched soul
it seeped away from the bowl so worn
from the years of scrubbing that it had borne

dear december

a very different december
at the doorsteps of my mind
it peels away silly solace
hiding colours for me to find