Peace – The Stories In Between

Of Prophets and Rivers

I sat with an old man on a weathered bench near the bank of a section of river most don’t come to anymore. He welcomed

I sat at the edge of something, contemplating anything. Like so many times before, I try to look up, but could only stare down into

I don’t recognize Any of this But it’s not so bad Just different There’s something Comforting About the end -Or so it seems

A want for destruction Held by A lack of faith In the oneself Wrapped in your Pious hope Choking on Identity indignation And the suffering

So much dropped Along the way Dreams Too heavy to carry Weigh us down In every attempt To move forward Till one day We wake

Sprawled out on a dirty floor I stare up at the ceiling fan Feel the forced air The gentle hum of the motor Perfectly balanced