Like a Stream, These Talks


Gushing white, secrets within,

Seldom intense, seldom serene,

Meandering as if on whim.

Cluttered but perceived clean.

It cuts through the silence; calm

Trying to make its way to the end.

Sometimes cold, and sometimes warm

Slowing down before the bend.

But take a moment, imagine.

What if it were a lake, not stream.

Conducive not competitive, sanguine.

Stationary but glorious; a dream.

An unstoppable force, water’s might

A stream can’t reflect the perfection around,

Although the lake has no concluding site,

Better to stand still than ignore the surround.

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