flick it into being.

Attempting.
Attempting again.
To tap a clay door down with patience.
To let the creatures within out.
Bring down soily dams for saltwater rivers to quench.
Quench my thirst, my superstition, my ethereal desire for the crackling of too fastly healing wounds.
Saciate my need for confusion, for the chaos of non solutions. For the chance to respect a lack of resolve. Self-justifying withholding taoism waging a revolution for time to pause in its two way street to death.