Residue drops

The final few drops get ready
To leave the broken ceiling
One by one, like clockwork
Reality settles over dust, humiliates.

The poet is dead, his study's awake
Literate paintings await footsteps;
It rained last night while the scotch ran out
Empty fireplace, sandalwood's costly.

Winter's paradise, a promised land;
The land that never existed; thus
A promise that never was kept
Fragrance yawns through the fields.

And yet, a few drops remain
They see the shining Sun while falling:
Evaporation, another daily process
And they fall with a wry grin.