Taking a Bath in the River Of Innocence And Guilt
The river shines soft as a child’s first dream,
yet it smells of rusted, beer cans, and regret.
I dip my hands in, wanting to be clean,
knowing damn well no water erases debt.
It strokes my skin with a lover’s hush,
cool as forgiveness, bitter as truth.
I close my eyes—there’s a moment’s blush,
then the laughter of liars, the loss of youth.
The guilty strip down beside the reeds,
the innocent whisper in the reeds too.
We all bathe in the same dark needs,
the river don’t sort between false and true.
It tells me: live, even crooked, even scarred,
let the currents gnaw your pride to shreds.
There’s beauty in drowning, the fight is hard,
but mercy lies where the water I often tread.
So I breathe, half prayer and under half shown my recurring dream,
which means I could then skry,
naked to the sky, bone-deep immersed.
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