An empty thing
This dish
Which, despite its endless potential
To distill any matter of wondrous contents
Be they spirits, inspiration, or both
Lies mockingly empty.
A testament
To all the dreams never realised
And the harsh reality
Of a drought
That may well never end
Even if reason suggests
That water always comes.
One should despair of nothing,
As all things, eventually, change
But to hold back the tide of despair
Tears muscle, strains bone and breaks spirit
To the point that success
Inspires only a weakly gasped cheer
Then silence.
After many long hours
A tired mind turns
To the quiet contemplation
Of victory.
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