When it Pours

Look
how inflated I am:
an alpha man
aired in his pride,
the scarecrow of the barren fields.

I am a rock, a mountain,
still minuscule
in compare with a sand in an hourglass,
the sip that corpuses partake
from the springs of motion.

I am a loop
in the conscience of time,
the eternal thirst,
a manhole, a chimney of desire,
for you,

the desire of a desert
in every twirling thorn
every dehydrated sand
for a drop
of
your
r
a
i
n.