A drop of liquid formed a rivulet
upon my shaved and barren thirsty cheek.
That pilgrimage is like an amulet
of moistureful and downsome dribblespeak.
I drank it all and drowned in salty fire
through which I saw the open velvet thighs
of what’s to come: A freak perched on high-wire.
A dream for countless fakes to vaporise.
For saline liquids mimic pilgrims’ search;
the steadfast chin of refuge is their goal.
Catharsis is the cassock of their church —
the only garment fit to reach the soul.
I felt that teardrop trundle down my face
with all reluctance lost without a trace.
© Alan Morrison, 2015