the river is its own mind

the emeralds melted and are
sliding as a messy mass
towards a mental destiny
which width forbids the journey
from proceeding unhidden

– and if unbidden or given
unhindered freedom to pass
is at this point immaterial
as well as nearly impotent

when positioned nude alongside
the muscular truth a local
magpie gets preachy about:
predicting the future should be
just another casino game.

Come to think of it, the water,
so green, could be symbolic felt.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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