The Beauty Of Writing

When I’m riding the river
it’s like there’s nothing else
I am the river
every drop and rock
tumbling down
and it’s only when
I step to the side
and ground my boat
that I see
there was no me
it was just me

As for my mind
reluctanly I go back
first dipping a toe
then more
but not yet, not yet
I walk the edge now
between river
and shore
a place where answers
are irrelevant
a place where smile
and touch
are the language

In time I will return
the pull of the tides are strong
and I will analyze
and seek
and the resentment will come
heavy and as attached
as my desire

Maybe I won’t spend as much time
maybe I’ll be on the shore
with my feet
perhaps up to my knees
or waste
in the river
not going anywhere
with nothing to deliver
with no haste
where smiles
and touch
are the language

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Elan Mudrow

Smidgens

Bitter Gertrude

Blogging about Theatre and Culture since 2013

Engage!

Critical Dharma for Thinking Minds

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Josep Goded

Seeking Truth

LYNCH

:to put to death (as by hanging) by mob action without legal approval or permission

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