Rain
falls to the
river; it is lost to
its orbit, again. Caught up
in this cyclical current, I'm surging
downstream; I am pulled in too deep; taken
far from the only thing solid that I've ever known,
my one shouldering stone, left to stand in the wreckage
alone. All I ever had to hold onto, and all I had left to let go.
If I could go back, I'd race to that water; I would run through the
ruin and rain; brace for bruises, bear every bitter, cold crash, face the
wind and its wrath. I would cling, hold on tight with both hands. I'd stay
silent and still. I would settle like stone. But forward the river must flow,
for it knows no retreat, far too restless to wait, knowing only to run without
pause; leave its dent in the earth and knows not to reverse. And the current
will carry on carrying all that's been taken, never turning around to take in
what it takes. But all that's lost isn't gone, for the vapor will rise and
ascend to the sky, just to fall back again. Clouds crack through
the quiet; they gather, they scream on the verge of release,
Still, I run to the thunder when called. For I am but
a drop; water, once pure before altered
by the harsh, crooked carve of the
course I fell into. And if I
can't retreat, then I
will return. Fall
back to that
river as
rain