The stream at the edge.

Try screaming on a busy road,
where impatience laces hearts,
tying knots,
taut and firm.

Try breaking down in the middle of the road, and watch your tears become traces of selfish sweat,
uncared for and forsaken.

Drag your weary feet back to that stream,
at the edge of all inhabitance,
far away from everything that you knew,
and all that claimed to know
the abstractness that burgeoned within you.

Merge your guilt with the moistness of this soil, and watch each particle wrap you in it’s arms,
watch how patiently the currents carry your screams,
recreating patterns utterly raw,
embedding them in the permenance of minds,
lost and betrayed,
watch them piece you together one bit at a time, until you dissolve within the purity of nature,
until the melodies hold you intact within each breath that searches for life,
a greater place to become
or rather become that
greatness that they seek,
that feels so out of reach,
so impossibly beautiful.


4 Replies to “The stream at the edge.”

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