...lies about its intentions
smooth skin over muscles underneath
covers the pointy things
polishes objections into tiny pebbles
has forgotten your name, but keeps a straight face
A face like a river is beautiful...
I purposefully stroke her wrinkled but ageless face
only to find myself an island
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As night approaches, the river and the sun call a temporary truce.
Waves of discontent diminish in the silence
But once the sun is gone, the river whispers...
dark tales of floods and cataclysms
the passing of cultures and gods
emphasizes Good Friday at the expense of Easter...
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...shows me the transitory nature of grass
waits smugly for me to understand the metaphor
a sharp cold breeze...
convinces my bones
"Yes, but resurrection." the sun reiterates.