McCoy

I’ve met plenty of cacti
Who prick and prod
In in exchange
For a promise.

Luring you in with blooming formosity,
Knowing full well
Just how parched you are

Desperate for a drop
Of what they can offer.

But these mirages
Are obstructive oases
That quelch, not quench

And you’re better off
Drying out, but moving on

Than waiting for their boon