My paddle plies these scarlet streams,
each ripple a reminder, a connection to past lives
rebirthed with each sip past parched, peeling lips.

I drift with the current, no looking back through
the distortion of ruby chalices and mock grails
faithless and frail, their eyes stare at me from
the depths of past despairs, skimming beyond
the dilapidated stairs, descending into the depths,
just below the surface of these claret brooks.

My paddle peels back the layers, droplets, dripping
down with every stroke, like lost words, plunging
invisibly downward, the eddies like pages lost in the
water's tumultuous flow, each fork a chapter, each
bend, a binding imprinting yet another tale, where
every embankment is a bookend in an infinite library.

Land of trois solitudes; just me in my kayak, the
sanguineous river at another man's sunset, beneath
the butchered, bandaged skies.

Bruce Herbert Fader 06-04-2022 23:33

(well I don't know what is up with the formatting here and why it keeps ignoring hard returns and making the stanzas all one line, but I am too tired and grumpy to fix it right now)

Bruce:

Your aliterative approach added admirably to the aura of this alluring, appealing anthem. I think you may have missed a synonym or two for red, though (lol).

Nicely written throughout.

Joe

Thanks Joe. I was in a bit of rush when I typed this one out so I will be reworking it a bit. I have noticed for instance that I misplaced a comma or two. *sigh.

Good one, Bruce, what long strange trip it's been, (with or without a canoe).

Les