does the water running from the tap to fall insolently into the unglass of petroleum flavored plastic ever yearn for the freedom of it’s ancestors

does it relish the breaking of the shore in tiny nibbles to return all to the bottom of the seas that once were inseparable from those above and below

is there a mercurial strand of mineral that recalls the winds that brought mist to crust over in crystalized deposits of salt that carry dead wishes

the ignoble fate of spraying across food encrusted dishware when once the feeble humans trembled while standing in the wake of it’s tireless battering

is there a trace of that babbling brook that once traced it’s way through the earthen obstruction to bring much needed relief from the parched land

lost in the sanguine waves of forced form restraint unable to spill forth across the tiled floor of constructed reductions where the ground is not grounded

untethered from the cyclical life of evaporation in the skies above no longer sequestered in great aquifers deep down in the craggy guts of the world

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