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.

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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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