These Windows Are a Sad Thirst

Photo by Marcus Cramer on Unsplash

These Windows Are a Sad Thirst

On the other side of this glass

is poised a sip of hemlock

not rooted in this soil

or cultivated from this land.

Its liquid form draws ever closer

to lips parched by climate control

and an ever-increasing hum

of radio waves inside these walls.

My soul seeks a level of moisture

not found inside this glass

for months, its essence trapped

in a wasteland of stasis.

If thoughts could sing, I would perch

on the highest limb, though bare

like the branches bereft of birds,

and chant a dirge for the dead.