liquid

my thoughts elude me
as i try to grasp them;
like water, they slide through my hands,
and i feel helpless as they soak the ground.

you ask me for an answer,
so i wrestle with the earth
to try and give you a glimpse of my intentions;
but it turns to mud, and I mess the house

(it dries, and so do i,
cracked, unable to stand, and i crumble in your hands)

when will the rain soothe the parchness?
will the time ever come,
when liquid turns to solid,
when my soul sings again?