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The pond sits empty
Of glorious liquid
Wanting a trickle of beautiful life
Away from its empty gut.

Slowly the rain starts to fall
And gently fill the stricken pond
But, the pond begins to wonder
When is enough . . . enough?

The clouds baring watery soul
Drip into open pond
Yet it still will not be satisfied
When it is done. It is done.

Overflowing from its banks
In gleeful, bloated joy
It does not notice the
Clouds wither and disperse.

The pond seals watertight
And sends the dehydrated fleeing
It keeps its water locked away
In cage without a key.

The sun beats down among
The landscape of parched, dry desert
A caked muddy basin surveys
The bones and lifeless trees

It wonders too itself
As the landscape rots and descends into death
Might I have had enough for my surrounds and me?
It reflects upon its gluttony

Into the expanse of eternity.

This poem is Copyright © Sinfullilmissmuppet