Ferryman

let it rain. 7 days, six nights. I don’t care. what it means. dirt clods dissolved and flowing mud. down the drains of circumstance. in the streets dance drops and splashes, goulashes of goblin children, screams and reveries of the trees lashed by wind the moon ppehole through the sky letting in trains of fraiy lights cast upon earth and moving sparks of firefly. streams trun their courses, mountains hold their orurses there is no passage here. not for you, enver for me. I absolve myself to sit by this creek until th e flood waters rises, until the bags beneath my eyes sink to sleep and the world is finally queit as the world can be. At least for me. I don’t want to hear your stories, or your tales or your poems, don’t want to hear what ails you or makes you happy, don’t want your message from creation, just leave me be, hear by my tree. by waters benath my knee as I wade in the shallow currents and look for that damn fish that made a face as me while I was minding my own bisuness and tending my own garden to see what would grow. and found nothing grew in this soul of solidtude but the need to express its silence. kind of counter productive don’t you thing=k? but it assures me, that anything I pursue or try to catch has an oppposite end, so I should be preapred. whatever that means. because it means nothing to me. never did, never will. that’s what I say about it anyway. I hear there are others with other sayings but what good do they do me? like I can carry them in my pockets and pull them out to pay the feery

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