Life takes a turn in cycles,
sometimes you pull it like a fresh loaf from the oven,
the crust has risen with hope
and the smell of achievement, joy,
seasoned with love, and happiness
floods the dam and we flow with the flood,
a smile bright upon face.
But before you know it: the bread
that was broken to share and devoured
with pleasure, has gone stale.
A feeling of being done with this game
washes over the stomach with each
grim bite. In panic, with frantic stares
a search begins for water
for something to clean the grit
and lumped chunks from throat.
Sometimes a glass of the most refreshing
aid is what is gripped, found, and downed.
Oh, how I know some who long
for this to be their case,
but in haste there was nothing found to sooth,
only the burn, and itch of a life building
up to dry. Where it is not the throat that cries
out for water, it is a soul cry.
A blaze in a
desert covered with sand of the past,
present and future of a man; no a boy,
that might just get lost
in the dunes and among the waves.