At the Heart of a Name-less River

Lest, not I rise, would you
follow me still, where
these dreams come upon us.
Lying beside the river's edge
where the current scatters
our reflection,
toward something, near-enough
like a piper's calling, shrill wind melody...

Melting slowly below a lighted disk
for which electricity and neon
leave an ordinary darkness in
such disrepair--
In the absence of true freewill,
I can only become the shadow
dancing around who I really
would like to be

... Someday, maybe

Lest, not I rise, would you
follow me still,
to where those dreams overcame us.
Lying beside the river's edge,
where the current swallowed
our reflection,
towards something near enough
like an old river song, intimate and deep...

Lost somewhere,
beneath the moon's hot rise,
would you shiver me still?
Or let the fever burn
wan passions flare, a
possession of breaths
filling empty air
with ghosts too heavy to bear

These dreams alone
caught up and
spun down upon
such fierce gravity

Down to the earth,
where it wears
a glittering, surface
a heavy littering of stone;
deeper than a river bed.
Turning over,
and over upon gentle-sharp
finger tips that flown,
an erosion of time against
some great unknown

Lest, not I rise, would
you follow me still,
to where those dreams had taken us?
Lying beside the river's side,
where the current swallowed
our reflections,
toward something near-enough
like a harmony that cannot be
pulled or plucked apart...

by any turn, and turned around
along the other bank, a'swirl
eddying to make the waters
dance, at the heart of a nameless river.

Peace,
Po