I was becalmed when she flew in,
gliding gracefully to alight,
before she became a tempest,
and carried me to the desert.
Our whirlwind, like a Sirocco,
stripped away my ego’s pretense
I could ever live without her.
She became my water, my air.
My thirst for her, but a mirage,
when I reached her, she was not there.

M. Zane McClellan

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