All ist dry

 Once a river, 

now this quite and sandy road, 

leads to an eclipse. 

It wasn't to be for a long. The vigorous flow

 lost the winning streak to the ravage, that

 was not time. 

He lost the dynamik not the essence, he 

reduced himself, drying in, not up. What 

now follows, is a manifest of sensual 

awkwardness. 

And dryness. Never to be seen

 preponderance, only burden has reached

his land. These last drops expired in the heat

of medieval years, watching them, is like

an inevitable rebirth. Or repetitive

 alienation.

Let him dry and become an ether not a whiff

of unpleasant thoughts. May the river find  

its nature, the cause of it, hence in constant

flux, do all things stream.