If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
                         contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.


When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
              deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
         falling leaves of deterioration.

A dilemma of reflection never grows
            it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
                but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.