The Old Waterfall

I.

Stay indoors
when waterfall lines
can't complete
the thought

can't
compete
with iron
mind

immovable

waterfall lines
trickle
in the sun
of this bored day

so bored is boring day
bored in dirt
bored a hole

it's enough to
take the time
breathe
prepare
and see
yet again

more broke lines
trickling as a
waterfall

II.

October waterfall
shining at
the boring sun
and boring lines
in dirt

the water
of the heart

not heart

but
the water of this
novelty
is October
the last trickling
drops
after the monsoon
before powder

fresh
white powder
that makes wave
white rapids
waving

at sun

to send a flowing
fall soon

to send
fluids
breaking iron
mind
will bend in fluid
mind
with less breaks
in lines

after this death
after agonized faces
run boring

day
the only
day

that would breathe
prepare
and see
lines
broke in place
where jewls
claim
they're found

here

in this break

tricks
trickling
trickle

tricks

III.

A convention center rusts below. It's goers shift and walk slowly before the dying fall. Agony presses these squinting eyes and furrowed brows that tell themselves to go on, on to the top, despite obvious pressure. Along the side of the trail, some cross their legs teary-eyed keeping it in, and dance a crooked dance before completing their ascent. The final leg is littered with prune juice containers and dried fruit bags. These agonized faces face relief just up . . . .
Those already making their runs say a prayer and give thanks for what is running so faintly, so vaguley. With ears pressed down to the rock, they hear its radiance whispering, "you can do it, you can save. Keep me going."
And for the sake of this dying fall, for the sake of all those decades past when they witnessed its spraying magnificence, a foreman on top signals though his megaphone
"Go! Let loose! keep it running!"
The squating conventioners ring their music through the cliffs, trickling faint gifts of life. Reems await their turn to make those same sweet sombre tones, to remember, to dream.
Oh, but it dies despite! And I hear the convention center isn't keeping up its dues. Yet on they march. On they go along steep trails in agonized faces, longing for their flowing fall, waving white to the sun.