i always come back
to your arms
i am not happy
but i have no choice
your arms are cactus
but i do not mind
i make most of what
imagination can offer
there will be sun
where there is none
i make rain
i also unmake them
everything are sands
in my hands
i open my fingers
as dams
sands trickle
waters pour
rivers form themselves
i make a mouth
where they can find
rest and be lost in the sea
this is what imagination is all about
one word: survival.
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-poetry-2/
