The River Runs
It brings to mind a question: why?
Why does the river run?
Does it need to?
Why is it considered peaceful?
And can it be obtained by other means?
And then it fades and the river runs dry.
The red one and the river of my eyes.
I fill the river bank so no one will know.
No one will learn of my unconventional escape.
I return to the life lived by another,
The life with a permanent upward arched
crescent moon etched into their face.
The one who pretends not to see the whispers and stares,
The living a life of self-coerced oblivion,
The life of the hated, yet unknown.
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