the cavern


the cavern

hollow as a deadened tree.
meaningless.
the applause of calloused palms,
dainty fingers,
of fists that know only anger,
hands roughened by the minute friction of distress.

does such praise fill the cavern?
the cavern wants a substantial echo.
there is a dry trough etched in it that wants filling.

that trough wants living water.
water that will laugh and fill its emptiness.
water that imparts the desire to sparkle and dance,
the ability to hold a soul with delicate fingers,
the strength to crawl up gritty mountains.

water that will satisfy and sustain.
water found only among rich green pastures,
a place found only by a twisting road,
swallowed by obscurity,
lit by a lamp.

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