We imitate the river on our way
Destinations turn into departures
As to and fro, night flows into bright day
My horse is a methodical marcher
If he could speak, he would never complain
His task is simple and gratifying
He moves the seated out and home again
While behind him, I am slowly dying
Routine is the mouth gnawing on my soul
Our winter walks, once lovely, now seem bleak
What quest has ceaseless motion as its goal?
The foul breath of my customers does reek!
The river speaks to me with a new voice
It promises that drowned, I will rejoice!
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.