River

The stream flows from the height of your heart’s flights. Downward pouring about the lonely mountains. It hops about jagged and jumbled rocks that provide no substantial resistance. Over Sheer cliffs without regard. The seasons try and do altar it’s course but harvest moon nor red star will dissuade it from destination. Sometimes a leaf would swim. On occasion, timber would throw limbs across its spans to little effect. The fallen logs, for all their living spite became, in death, a bridge for shores. It knows nothing more then to flow, to be received with the need of desperation inside the times satiation. To be treasured as the pool of the waterfalls and swam about in starlight.

-M