I breathe
The words of my dreams
Through the glass lips of empty bottles.
As whispers,
Bouncing off their resonant crystal insides.

And I strive
To pour the water of my actions
Into each and every bottle.
As I cross
My own personal desert,
Desolate,
Stark,
And alone.

I have
Only
Empty
Bottles.

I drown in the wind of my empty words,
Yet I still fill more bottles.
And I die
In the parched,
Cobwebbed
Corner of my accomplishments.

Yet I still
Fill
More
Bottles.

I add to my pack
The weight of nothing,
And it crushes me.

But I cannot leave my bottles.
I cannot shatter them,
And set free my hopeful echos,
Fluttering as silent vibrations through the air.

I cannot abandon them.
Here on this rock,
Or in this corner,
The attic.
Because to let them go,
Is to admit defeat,
Is to admit failure,
And my own incapability.

So I carry my 1 ton pack
Of air,
And I fill more bottles.
I sleep on the sand,
And I dream
Of water.