Poetry

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Buoyant skeletons and dark secrets surface,
save us and threaten to drown
us in the seething whitewater of the river.
Along these shores lie squatters, quitters and victims.
Carrying protest signs,
shouting anti-sentiments and selling band-aids.

Vagabonds in shining armor with kingly intentions float slothfully along promising new wheels.
Misery masquerades as confidence behind the
thin veil of social grace.
Shattered dreams, unresolved issues and bitter roots choke rationality.

Enraged debutantes swim upstream for one last
chance at birthing some twisted form
of happiness from a bloated empty womb.
Bleached white, pot bellied hero’s drift backwards on yesterdays accomplishments.
Sacrificing tomorrow on the altars of blame.

And the river rolls on
The winners, the losers,
The stout-hearted and the wise
All who travel here will someday die
For the river we travel
Is the river of time

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