The River Runs Dry

From an antique memory
Whose pale springs have turned to dust-
Whose sole survival hinges on redundancy
You rise on the horizon-
Of a boundless artists mind
Commanded only by what he can dream
So I conjure passion
Stretching forth my hands across
Your forgotten springs
I think to dip my pen into-
The wells that have run dry
To reason with the angels
Why I crave insanity
Yet the reaching of our boundaries
Flays me at the line
I rage to bring to life
What time has now confined
The brimming is within me
The fountain of your kiss
That mingles in the sorrow-
Of this great abyss