it is nearly
summer
but the touch
of winter
clings to my
woe encrusted
emptiness
too much rain
blotting out
the needed rays
drenching my
hollowboned
laissez faire
with hints of
cloven despair
the beavers in
my cavernous skull
have dammed the
streaming weapons
of vernacular
warfare techniques
leaving a fool
sputtering as he
drowns in three
inches of water