The River

I hate not remembering,
despising the shroud.
Knowing, not seeing,
no feeling aloud.
Absorbing faces
I don’t recognize,
people growing older
while I froze in time.

How is that fair
for either of us?
If I could care,
could I earn my trust?

As stillness eludes me,
why do I lift?
Why do I move?
Am I adrift
in the current,
floating by
on a bed of tears
I did not cry?

If I could care,
could I earn my trust?
How is that fair
for either of us?

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4 thoughts on “The River

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