The Silent Hour

Whittle a stick down the silent water by the river side a confused chapter caught in cross-hairs the trees were humming turning twigs as leaves were turning meet he who handles the ore that roars the boat in the silent waters, the silent waters a place, where fishing goes on on a daily basis caught in a nice rainbow he casts his nets to communicate with the creatures underneath this is just a waste of his talent damn!! said the fish as it hit a concrete rock he stretches his efforts struggling with the creatures a tufted niche to hedge his bets a cocktail of soar yet sweet smell emanates as the creatures are squeezed into baskets In a bumpy ride comes a Caucasian man slim with grey hair and a grey beard he seems too old for his age I watched as he took the fisherman's toil, dash and rush as he leaves in his hilux silenced, no guts to speak the fisherman feigns a smile this is just a waste of his efforts a choir of emotions cast a spell as a deep mysterious language of yearning for equity evokes. why reap where you never sow?? a series of feelings cobweb my mind wishing light to the dark to transform ill souls overcoming the pain the man walks away lost in self pity his efforts futile vulnerable never goad