There was once a drought that thundered through the land
It stormed from north to south sparing neither head nor hand
It came on the heels of may, to rob fields of their right
Giving hunger to day then taking respite from night

Sun came and moon thereafter, time and time again
Yet the skies yielded no answer to the outcry of men
‘Cause fortune did reject the farmer’s desperate plea
For sin of thankless neglect towards soil of sower’s glee

Clouds massed in mocking grey, winds whispered hopeful lies
Telling of a better day when we would hear the heavens’ cries
Such was the willful drought that ended harvest’s reign
Starving land of fruitful sprout till Mercy brought the rain

I should say no more of the gloom through days of old
But with words long withheld, tell of that which should be told.

Trapped in my mind.

With these thoughts,
these memories,
these feelings.
Writing used to be
my escape,
my release,
my purpose

Now I don't even
know how to...

This makes no sense,
but it's on paper.
So maybe,
it's some sort
of escape,
release,
purpose.

From these
thoughts,
memories,
feelings.