Running Dry

My words fall as drops of rain,
breaking against the oiled surface
of a waterproof canvas.

They sound a soft drum
with a soothing pat-pat,
like gentle, rapping fingertips.

Each one is me—
those glistening sky tears.

They journey from so far,
just to be repelled.

Maybe it’s time—
time to make dry the storm;
give in
to the beckoning winds
that would disperse my vapor
into nothing.

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