Not a bad bit of writing, I think, worth reading, slowly.
May I flow as lucid as that
does flow red the river bed,
no longer dry the bed rock dead,
worthless as where I once sat.
Breathe it may a passive yawn,
feign I shall not bit displeasure,
nor may you children of leisure,
whether flows it dusk or dawn.
For you see now I am that winding
path of stones and aging bones
to where I lead the river unknown
is where I lose myself in finding.