It continues to flow, even in strongest of droughts.

Unknown to the owner, immersed in a dryer matter.

The liquid intoxicates one to salt

That crystalizes until time to shatter.

And then the pieces melt to be runny once more.

Streams of it emerge

Inviting their master to soar.

The watercourse grows stronger yet lonelier with time

As potential devotees choose to be oblivious

Overlooking the sublime.

So what is this substance, so profuse and enticing?

Why is it ignored by many

While very little bask in the offering?

The runoff is independent of familiarity

But will reveal itself at will.

It basks in its own presence

The Enraptured Overspill.