The River

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 19, 2016

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Submitted: June 19, 2016

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The River

As I stand here, on the soft mud cliff

With the watery air greeting me through droplets on my face

Of the warm foresty aroma, I catch a whiff

The gentle river, mutes the grey roads, with the utmost grace

 

I was here before, a mere 10 minutes ago

When on inspiration, into here, with the few steps I veered

And back here now, pleasantly surprised I grow

To find comfortable homely refuge here

 

I hear the crickets, the hoppers, the birds

Singing in with the river the cosmic songs

And I wonder if we even created the words

To understand what they have been singing for long

 

It makes me sad, uneasy to remember

That there are a billion things I do comprehend

And I wonder if it is very much better

To be made to feel human by something which the words cannot bend

 

The river goes on,  submissive, rolling off the stones like slides

Giving company in this world, to the quirky snowflake

By fostering bubbles engulfed in foam that glide

Never to have a twin as long the world wakes

 

I wonder what it would be like to sleep

To the sound of the river, revealing to the dark sky, its glinting stars

And just as Santa, the beat of the water would pleasantly creep

Until I’d never want my music to reach its ending bars

 

But the river would remind me

Every droplet expressing the meaning

That the timely flow of life, through mountains and trees

Never does stop, even as the last droplets are leaking

 

In A rush, behind my eyes, My love for the river returns

And into the flowing arms I’m cradled

Floating distant from the illusions of my unhappy humans

Who seek to preserve a selfish impression of the world

 

They fall in love with something that isn’t whole

Their desperate minds filling the gaping holes

And in their walled busy life, they blatantly miss

The beauty of the world, that appeals to the soul

 

The un-understanding river who is

Talks again to me, with no words spoken or said

And as I walk back to the grey roads, the wannabe bliss

I love my time spent, in its eternal act of farewell, with the river bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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