The Secretions

Some days he rides
On the whirlwinds
Other days he crawls
On the gritty wastes

Ongoing is one of the latter
Enticement of engaging
The lacrimal gland at full bore
Yet without an exegesis

Down in the dumps he is
Lost in his own emotions
Drowning in the precious fluid
Yet his seek for relief misread for waving

In a precious fluid swamp is he stuck
The reeds embrace like he is their own
Not willing to let go of their new catch
Blow a whistle and come to his succor

Were it feasible he could flee
But how could he flee
From the secretions
In his brain cells