Old Poetry

i always come back
to your arms

i am not happy
but i have no choice

your arms are cactus
but i do not mind

i make most of what
imagination can offer

there will be sun
where there is none

i make rain
i also unmake them

everything are sands
in my hands

i open my fingers
as dams

sands trickle
waters pour

rivers form themselves
i make a mouth

where they can find
rest and be lost in the sea

this is what imagination is all about
one word: survival.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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