Dry

I have lost my art.
Poetry used to nourish my body
like water running
through the
veins
of an evergreen tree.
Now I am barren.
Bones brittle and
disintegrating, begging
for
something, anything;
for passion
or even
lust.
Pragmatism
has infected my brain
and spread.
These malignant
tumors
have left me
numb.