When the Rapids Meet the Rocks

When the rapids meet the rocks,

over time and many storms, they becomes smooth to the touch.

 

As I watch a stick float by, slipping over that worn boulder,

I pull at a thread from my unraveling skirt.

It floats through the same pathway, the piece of string I pulled apart,

and threw into the soft wind.

 

If we are only droplets of water, from the vast sea,

and if all the rivers and the rain flow in sync,

are we all the same? If so, what happens to us when we are no longer alive?

Do we become water?

Do we become the tears that are shed for us?

 

It’s easy to philosophically pick apart the meaning of death, of life.

What the fuck do we know?

How many of us really know?

 

When the rapids meet the rocks,

will it prove that life just gets out of hand?

even if you try to keep it simple.

I am thinking so.

 

 

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