The Drips (James Rustic)

In the dim, dreary shine of the moon’s pale light,
Drip, drip, drip moans a leaky faucet in the night;
As each lonely drop falls into the cavernous drain,
Another ideas slips through the cracks of my fragile brain.

Drip, drip, drip, deep pools of water form below,
Where thoughts perish nightly under the evening glow,
Churning and struggling to survive this perilous bind
Yearning for the warmth of my once promising mind.

As the night ceases and collapses into a new day,
The faucet runs dry as the remnants drift away.
And when the day passes and my thoughts begin to fail,

Drip, drip, drip, my ideas will once again set sail,
As the night takes control and determines my fate
No longer allowing my weakened spirit to create.