Too often 
We seek the answer 
In the dry bones of thought,
Picking like carrion crows 
For something edible,
A scrap among the dust. 

And again we seek love 
In dry thought 
And find ourselves wanting,
Thirsting for a truth 
Devoid where we look. 

Where is this love 
Of which some are flushed
Easy
In rich abundance,
Drinking as they wish? 
For I go always 
To the arid thoughts 
And suck 
For marrow 
Long since desiccated, 
Wishing it was wet 
Like a spring. 

Where is this love 
That thought has promised 
But fails to deliver?
For his promises 
Are as juicy 
As a succulent fruit 
That I never get to taste, 
Hovering always out of reach
Distant upon the horizon. 

Where is this love 
For which I have sought 
Like a mad man 
In the desert 
Drinking only mirages?
For I have looked 
Under every stoney thought 
And found nothing 
To quench this thirst, 
Finding only dehydrated 
Thoughts
Forever wanting, 
No hint of Source 
In thought, 
Nothing to wet my tongue 
And bring me home 
To love,

Only these parched thoughts 

Thinking 
And thinking.