I Travel Down This Empty River (By Way of Boat)

Could, in truth,
such a lust be that
of want and desire,
rather than that of a
necessity?
Could this be the immature
growth of infatuation,
rather than the spawn of a greatly matured
- and longed for - passion;
where warmth shall encompass
my being, my heart
beating in a rhythmical
surrender, not a
broken harmony?

You, my unwilling tenant:
shall you leave and be,
devoutly, homeless on these
dangerous streets?

Cursed be that I am at fault,
being the creator of this disaster,
for my fingers still grip the charred match that
invited my heart into
this battlefield
where, assuredly,
my heart shall meet
its demise.

Woe is the river that leads to
nowhere,
such as is the
woe to this desire that leads me to
you;
for you are in succession to
Life
as I am in succession to
Death.

Bathe,
woeful one,
in the waters of this empty river,
and thus pray to your gods that
drought shall not leave you there to die.
Bathe amongst this infatuation, woeful one,
for no such ugliness could be as invigorating
as the last thing which you cling onto:
hope.

I travel down this empty river
- by way of boat -
astutely aware that following
this path (however willingly)
shall be as deadly as
the hope withering away
in my yearning heart.
Despite that,
I'm still hoping for rain.

I'm still longing for rain.