A river, there, reflects the moment.
Paralysis of action.
P’rhaps I’ll throw this out on WordPress.
Alone in grief sustained.
Sounds, not syllables.
And all is rather still.
Wither, whence, did the rolling wind take up those leaves?
Three, two, one.
The city is mapped.
A code of arrationality and potent instinct.
Be ‘tween two unknowns.
Everalways all together.
There, but for the purest chance, go I.