Direction

A poem.

West is the river
flowing like stop-
light-less traffic
and it murmurs a gentle
riddle to you
standing alone on its profitless bank:
Tomorrow is a
slender boat
sailing beyond your
purposeless grasp.

Just then a casual breeze touches
your sunlit face
and all that you want to believe in
holds sudden truth. Susan Scutti

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...