The river rolls and whispers to me of gentle whorls and rhythms free this joyous ride, journey d’espirit to find the sea, to find the sea. But underneath this joie de vivre is tumbled sand and grinding scree, a world of strict conformity. No pebble’s free. No pebble’s free. Sharp edges worn over the years, beveled and fretted, flow of tears - water pushes, everything adheres Mass domineers. Mass domineers. So big things hold their own in there resilient boulders or logs in snares. Tiny leaves stripped skeleton bare. It’s just not fair. It’s just not fair. We little things on life’s great course get washed along in current’s force. We try to cling, or seek remorse from this wild horse, from this wild horse. We are the pebbles smoothed and worn, we are the leaves, eaten and torn. Those rocks, embedded, gaze with scorn. With privilege born. With privilege born.
Written for Grace from dVerse’s prompt asking that we write a Monotetra. For more information on this form please follow the link.