Thorns of the mad
Two water drops slide down a hot, steamy dome;
one is the tide, the other’s a storm.
They might meet, merge, become a true ghost, a wild force,
in the time they have left it seems like their ever best choice.
But they might boldly keep sliding alone to the ground,
with their ego to share with their last thoughts, their last sounds;
drip – drop, drip – drop,
now what do you choose?
Do you take a desert of daydreams
over passion of fumes?
Will you pass on the chance to get your finger stabbed?
Or will you throw your naked body over thorns of the mad?