This bend of the river,
it's a little less jagged than that last one.
But just as real and just as rhetorical.
The elves only play in its fresh water
and then run to its banks
for replenishes poise
with the most sincere of thanks.
I feel of the outbound bank,
surrendering to the gravity of natural selection.
Not any inferior than its supplement
and just as necessary.
Without this latent bend,
who knows where it would end.
Everyone would become a chaotic flood
with no regards to tributary.
I feel of the inbound bank,
giving in to the needs of the current,
but with the least bit of sorrow,
only compassion and understanding,
cursory in necessity.
For removal only calls upon a new path,
a new method, a new way for rest,
an option for all to see.
I wish my predicament couldn't be so generic.
I speak of charred wood and its ashes.
Burnt again for a higher purpose.
Regenerated to divinity, affirmed in love,
a fork in the stream that guides my passions.
December 1, 1997