Poetry

A calm and winding river. The surface, nearly still.

A boat gliding across the water. Nothing moves until,

At last, something stirs! But ripples fade in fog,

For in this quiet land of stasis, nothing moves at all.

Broken dreams slip off the banks, regrets churn in the deep.

The still, flat water stays unbroken, as the river sleeps.

Perhaps in ancient, brighter times, the river roared with might,

But now only the passing boats fill this gloomy sight.

The mist clouds sight and mind alike, the sad souls wander, lost.

As the final memory ebbs away and leaves them all to naught.

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Heaven’s arc, thou art so fair,

To bless us with thy brilliance.

Unto those who seek thy prayer,

May they find their resilience.

To never wander banks again,

Thou bringest thy most grandest ships.

The gilded pale-robed ferrymen,

Will tear the veil from where it sits.

Unto death, unto dignity,

To be worthy of a paradise,

I make my final, primal plea:

“For such great peace to suffice, 

Need not there be purity?

“I ask if the tainted heaven,

Is of true morality,

Or is this act just a lesson

That God was truly love indeed?”