Nothing to say
Nothing to show

Waiting for nothing, at last it's arrived.
The ghost of a hope no longer alive
Just the waiting remains with no reason behind.

A bucket, empty, bone dry from evaporation
As it sits, unfilled, for what seems like generations.

And the water is gone.
And gone, that which would fill it

         But **** anyone who dares to renew it.

This bucket must wait to be filled by the tide
That no longer will visit the cavity inside.

The grim ghost of a hope that its contents return.
Not some fresh, new, clean source, but the one that was first.

The Ghost of the dying, or dead Hope that was fueled,
Leaving nothing behind
But patience.



This deadly numb patience, the husk of a goal
That once dreamed each drop would return to the whole,
Is now simply nothing.
It's for nothing, i wait.

With nothing to show.
And nothing to say.