Dwindling

Everything inside of me
is withering up you see;

what of me I wanted to
give to you I had wanted to
be a font, a fountain,

a rushing pulse of wet life,
all bloody and brilliant.

I have nothing left
to give you, though;

the waters within me
are drying up,
leaving me with nothing.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

0 Responses to Dwindling

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    You’ll never be left wtih nothing, Jones. That won’t ever happen.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.