I sit down weary, by river shore.
My mind spins on, to what came before.
Where river meet and stone collide,
Where pebbles, under liquid blankets confide.
Where the air is haughty,
Most certainly naughty,
To bellow thick mist to it’s side.
The stone eventually takes hulking grace.
Clay flows like blood, in granite encased.
Rising again, a walking tomb,
Freedom from a watery womb,
With scorn and wrath etched on his face.
A fist of rock did smite and cleave,
A fork in the river it would bluntly weave.
Impeded by force,
The river took course,
And melded to what he would believe.
I questioned this, why bend to his will?
Why submissively let bloodshed and spill.
I remembered it then!
I was daydreaming again!
And my mind turned the mundane into a thrill!
Author notes
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