Water

The well is empty.
I have pushed deep into the earth
To satiate my thirst,
And the dirt yields nothing.
The pump is rusted now
With nothing in the ground,
What left is there?

I suppose that pump is like my life
Striving to extract some life-giving truth
from an ancient earth too tired to care anymore.
As I sit here, I find myself rusting
What else is there?

And I suppose I've been used too
Others thinking I would save them
And now they are rusting too
So I keep asking myself when --
When will the spring burst again?
When will the drought end?
When else is there . . .

And The others? they will move on
To find other wells
Leaving behind a ghost town
Rusted pumps and sounds
Of grinding metal, aching
For what once was.
Who else is there?

Who else can revive
What has long been empty?
Leave me here to rust away,
Let me think on better times,
Of overflowing wells of life,
Before it all went dry.
Why else leave me to die?