Currents of Becoming
There is a sound
that draws one
toward an unknown path,
like that of a flowing river
whose story
has yet to be told,
and in the wake
are chapters,
ripples of memories,
punctuated by the dreams
that guide
life’s prow
toward an unseen horizon.
Into the unknown,
bold strokes
set the soul afloat
down this river never traveled—
a river of doubt.
Upon the flow
the reaching canopy
casts across
the liquid canvas
sketches of nature.
These water reflections
give no answers,
no clear perspective.
They appear as painted moods
from a palette
of shadowy hues.
Through the healing leaves,
the free wind
carries the chorus
of birdsong and wild calls,
accompanied by the
lapping water on the shore—
a hypnotic lullaby.
As the day
turns to dusk,
under the obsidian sky,
the wet shadows
take root
in a fertile mind,
signaling the time to disembark,
and shelter
from the noise
of trepidation.
Listening,
the river's voice
whispers rumors
of what lies ahead—
turbulent scenes,
disrupting dreams
and hope.
At daybreak,
the beating heart echoes
the night’s presage,
taming hubris.
Its message
becomes a weight
borne upon
sinewy shoulders
that push and pull
the vessel
forward
through this river
untamed.
Its direction,
depth,
length,
peril—
all unknown.
It’s a clash of wills,
nature’s and man’s,
bruising confidence
with battering doubt,
sweeping one into the river’s wrath,
…unmoored and oarless.
Weathered and battered,
strength wanes,
wakes weaken,
drawing the soul
toward a still pool
of reflection.
Deep in the interior
a pulsing stirs
the gnawing hunger
yoked to a goal—
expend youthful vigor,
spare nothing for the age of decline,
for only the intrepid
will live many lifetimes.
This odyssey of time,
days into weeks,
into months,
into seasons
births self-discovery
upon clear,
reflective waters.
Sounding the depths,
and enduring the labors,
delivers the crowning of hope
that the passage ahead
leads to a berth
of calm waters.
The passage of discovery—
for what is the purpose?
Without a map,
without measure,
the way traveled
is a passing sigh,
like fingerprints upon the water,
awash in the sand.
Yet, surveyors
of the currents,
the mountains,
the valleys,
even of the abyss,
etch in the water
a charted passage
that steers the story.
For the intrepid,
words are not enough.
And words for those wildly mad—
there are never enough.
If braved,
discovery becomes a tributary,
feeding an understanding
that the river flowing
is a winding current
toward becoming.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment