A River, Cried

3/25/20091

There she was, staring into the deep, melancholic void of her own heart, while wondering if it could beat onward. Throat closing around unclear thoughts, sight fogging from saltwater dreams, and life freezing in deep contemplation, her tears drove onward. Such angst exists, if not for a second, but for days on end, in which the bittersweet taste of "what-could-have-been's" rolls off the mind's tongue and into a constantly disolving atmosphere. Oh, if only solutions were attainable to life's problems, rather than allowing the easily deceived to wallow in sunking ships. Where to which life is it, that life can be easily solved, for if it were to be, what would be its purpose? Ah, but is a life without tears truly a life at all? The throat being a virgin to the allergen of sadness, the sight given utmost clarity, and life in constant movement--such absence of tears leaves a filthy life, devoid of any emotion--devoid of washing and healing past wounds. Here she is, or is it me? Allowing the waters to take over mind, body, and soul, I grow accustomed to the cradle of the healing tear. Welcoming it, my thoughts of sorrow escape into "sadly-ever-after's" and out of my fairy tale dream. Arms gaining strength to swim the river of sorrow, I look onsward, for both solution, and possibility. Floating is the mere hope for discovery, as it proves whether or not good will inhabits this Earth for whose river I do supply.