The water was quiet and unruffled:
Though intemperate winds blew on it
Ne’er once did it ever really stir
And we got so used to its pervasive presence

In line with global trends everywhere
We took notice only when loud waters bubbled
       Like wayward children we scoffed
       When delectable words of wisdom
Wafted like therapeutic mist out of Wisdom Well

But now that the well is empty and dry
Our deprivation begins in earnest
And soon, very soon, nostalgia will whip us
One and all till we learn the bitter lesson:

That second chances belong to storybooks only;
Now that this veritable repository of true wisdom
Is in other dimensions our dilemma cries out
Who amongst us shall quench our thirst
Now that the water in the well has dried

meeting you
was finding a pond
after years
of knowing only desert

I'm not fully ready to be with you
I am still figuring myself out
But what if being ready is a myth
Fabricated by those who let fear win
I don't want to let this linger any longer
I need you under my skin
I need you in my veins
In my sheets
In my arms
You have been in my mind
Since the fourth of July
And I can't stand pretending anymore
I know it's not smart
But I need to follow my heart

..And it leads me to you.

i find myself wandering through your thoughts
as you wander through mine
exploring the intricate paths
all the little details
and in that moment i hoped to lose my way
stuck in the lovely labyrinth of your mind

Poetry is so hard to find,
quite like love.
When you do, you must
write it like a check
you owe for allowing it
to express how the world
comes to mean anything at all:
to cover the debt you pay
for being, for flashing brightly
before the day begins
to crumble.

  ~mce

To end this, is to run blindly - falling
loose limbs wild and flailing
with hands that can no longer grasp
a saving grace, a final branch
we are lost in desolation
it is pure wilderness
a long winter's night
with no path or tracks
to follow, cold like snow
we plow this landscape, barren
deep and dark below
to seep into the soul
lingering long in limbo
the ache of holding on
transformed into
the pain of
letting go