Rivers & Rhyme

Time is a river.

We are but fish.

We wait all our lives for the waters to warm,

The sun to shine upon the surface;

For the Mayfly to dance.

We stream through the shallows.

Silver. Quick.

And hope that Death does not fish our stretch,

As we journey upstream.

Where instinct leads –

Through deeper wynds,

To source and spring.

Return.

To beginning.

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