Bittersweet Sylvanus

There is a river flowing beside my footprints

Made of the tears of those who never truly got over their faults.

A bittersweet river made for a bittersweet time

To reflect what others feel without a waste of words.

From time to time, I help in the construction,

Forcing the thorns up my throat and out my mouth. A season

Of dying leaves prepared to occupy the river

Are of the utmost importance; the leaves are draped in spiders’

Dreams and rotting breath.

A cyclical force churns the river,

 Giving it animation where Death was once King.

Slivers of rock adorn the river, adding substance

To another year, perhaps.

Dryads dance to an inner song, teasing me of my flesh prison;

It is never my fault. They think the river

Is a chance of a new life, a chance beyond their wooden prisons.

So, we are prisoners, small and immense, trapped but in favour

With one another, giving homage to the waters

Flowing freely, wishing us its own success. Cool breezes

Flow backward, distant and careless, succeeding in areas

When there were none to give or win. Despite all of this,

Despite my own words that I swore I would never use, this river gives me

A strange hope through my own fingers, typing furiously away

To make sure that others will understand me. My fingers, filled to the brim

With tears, bittersweet, remember, are fast as they pour forth

My own confession. The Rapture comes slowly, ticking away

As I sit and now watch this saline river sluggishly churns by me, offering no

Splashes on my feet. No baptism for me for I no longer need it.

I was already baptized, I tell the river, making clear that it understands me.

I was already baptized.

This, then, is a new experience.