A River in November

A poem I wrote at the writing group’s last meeting, looking at life and rivers.

 

 

The river of life has an uneven flow,

Sometimes deathly calm,

Sometimes violently rough.

I may find myself bilious at the slightest movement

Or cling to the world for a dangerous ride.

Every fork in the waters brings a vital decision,

So many wrong already.

I am far from the place I was looking for

I try to take the right way every time now,

To try and return,

Further down the river that I should be living on.

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