5 am darkness.
it's merry morning time
and if I had a drink I'd toast myself
to another night of beating sleep.
or to sleeps evasive nature.
either way, the result is the same.
and the means never matter
when the end is nigh.
high upon nigh, it has come unto now
and here we raise our dry and frail hands to the sky
dancing for rain under a brightening sky
our tongues are sandpaper leaves that curl up in the caverns of our mouths
our throats, raw from the air - rasping
still our bodies move in a fervor,
we will have our rain.
and the sun punishes our leathery skin
and we will dance
until we drink the rain