Hydrate Time

Must I be patient for my own demise?

I do not know what is out there,

beyond crests of time,

pillows of snow


schemes of wonder.

Lust towards unknown 

and unheard of


Is this real?

Or am I dreaming again.

Lost in the folds of forced expression.

Like a broken faucet,

constantly dripping

but doing my duty:

keeping it hydrated.

This poem is about: 


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