The River

Driving past the river,
I look through the slits on the bridge,
And it moves like an old film reel,

The water,
Frozen over,
Like the expression of grief,
Stays still,
As if in remembrance,
Of those long gone.

The river,
Now flows swiftly,
Like the freedom,
A soul receives,
When it’s body departs.

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One Response

  1. Thank you, Jeff.

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