And draws up sand, gravel, and mud.
The mind, so crystalline and honed at times,
Sputters along on dusty, desiccant thoughts.
Aphasia sets in — and the way forward
Is a wind-swept place with sand storms
That sting the eye and pulverize the mind.
Keep digging along the vein.
You will find the source again.
It will not flow to you —
You must flow to it.
You must flow to it.
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