How deeply must the layers burn
through my unrequited soul
before it finds its way home?
The days and nights spent weeping
until my body passed out
from exhaustion removed all doubt
of the love so freely given away;
the same love so easily forgotten
like ripe fruit exchanged for rotten.
The soul flows slowly as the river flows,
rushed away in momentary rapids,
then whisked away to where it’s vapid.
Is there anything left for me?
It seems my mind must also go
like the lonely flow of my river soul —
never looking back from whence it came,
nor wishing it failed to relegate,
but always seeking to proliferate —
passionate expansion is the only option left,
creating new streams in the wilderness,
the previous path like a coat to divest
while embracing a bare-skinned brazenness
until my soul finds its own kind of rest.
River Soul
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