Common paths are drawn,
Shaping the pavement,
Filling silence.
Tracing vulnerably,
Left unsaid,
While Mother weaves.
Raindrops course the gutters,
While currents soothe our battered skull,
Creation bargains.
As if of heaven,
Torn from clouds,
Quenching damned thirst.
Tombs devour the rivers,
Sewers overflow,
Nature still abhors us,
Tonight we sleep alone.
The droplet hangs a moment,
Collecting courage,
Mustering strength,
Preparing for its descent.
Hovering at the tip of the golden leaf,
It gathers itself together,
Ready to take the plunge,
Willing to engage what lays below.
The tension broken,
A sturdy platform left to dry alone,
Our swirling mass hangs but a moment longer,
Waiting for the earth to rise in response.
Slowly twisting through space,
Our sphere of molten humidity,
Unraveling a secret story,
Somersaulting a voiceless song.
It cannot fall forever,
This troupe of collected dews,
Despite the lethargic tumbling,
Soon must brace itself.
For that which lays below,
Will not be parted,
Can not be negotiated with,
Must stand true.
And with that thought,
In such a cataclysmic instant,
The droplet finds its mark,
Shape swiftly eradicated.
Striking the bridge of her nose,
Splashing in all directions,
Finding purchase upon her cheek,
The gallant unit is dispersed.
Its secret story quickly silenced,
With the flick of her wrist,
Our droplet wiped away,
Scattered to the wind once more.
Diving, splashing, kicking with fury,
handfuls of water
diverting myself towards the deep,
towards the blackness,
Breathless.
I could surface, I suppose.
What good would come of it?
The deep chills me,
fills me,
Breathless.
The rays of sun betray the surf above,
but I prefer
the tickle of vacated shells
pouring between my fingers,
Breathless.
The darkness calls to me,
demands I should respond,
instead I gasp
mouth overflowing,
Breathless, I am drowned.
The Elementalist Epoch 