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 let them dance the drops and splashes the goulashes of goblin children and the screams and reveries of the trees lashed by wind the moon ppehole through the sky letting in all the train of fraiy lights cast on earth and moving sparks of firefly. let the streams trun their courses let the mountains hold their orurses there is no passage here. not for you, enver for me. and I absolve myself to sit by this creek until th e flood waters rises, until the bags beneath my eyes sink into sleep and the world is finally queit as the world can be at least for me. and 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 the water 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. and 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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