reservoir

I've lost the will to do too much,
my creative reservoir drained slowly
over the months, sun parched
by the summer wasted, waiting...

What remains is mud, burnt,
a fetid stream cloudy with
sediment, or maybe sentiment,
in any case yellow as a mortal wound.

Amid the cracked wastes lie fragments,
abandoned foundations from before
the damn trapped every thought,
until the waters rose to bursting.

That great reserve is now lost,
and the forecast forebodes doom,
thirst: aching, fields: fallow,
and a dry tear unmarked by fate.