Quenched

Thirsty.

Shakespeare could not write a more tragic story than this.

I am easily seduced by fiction.

His psyche entices a terrain long maintained by someone else.

Thirsty.

My caretaker is the most joyous of lights,

He is the sun, his warmth sinks into my skin,

and my garden is roused awake to seek the source of his bliss.

Thirsty.

My fields are planted with the softest and most fragrant of blossoms.

His lips drop seeds around the grass and flowers bloom in their places,

Reaching the highest summits and lowest plains.

Thirsty.

Van Gogh could not paint a better canvas than this.

Drunken euphoria imprinted under every stroke,

Framed and forever encapsulated in memory.

Thirsty.

Every pounding breath delivers life with the utmost satisfaction,

creating heavy rainfall as a hurricane approaches.

The storm rages and waterfalls pour over into the valley.

Thirsty.

Satisfied in every way possible,

I am still clouded by the romance of fantasy.

Dreams of what if's are rooted in my territory.

Thirsty.

Imaginary lore is blown away in my stunning reality,

Where serenity finds me when the sun sets,

And I am washed in peace as I am dressed in the stars of the night.