Poetry is supposed to flow, just like water.
It falls from the sky, shedding tears from heaven above.
Provoking, the tears hit me.
Such a sensation on my skin, leaving me limitless.
Liquid trickles over my body, giving me goosebumps and raising every hair it passes over.
I am now enveloped in a hydrated cocoon and find myself using only my sense of feeling,
as in too touch.
Attempting to grab the water, it being entirely malleable,
runs over and through me.
Until it drips off of me,
plunging towards the ground.
It hits with a great velocity and plasters the surrounding area.
I realize, just like poetry,
water can be stopped.
Stories will never stop being told.
Whispers will always be head by those who are listening.
and dreams will never end.