The River Has No End

Stare of city lights,
weary, warm and gentle
golden orbs
shining homely
along my way.

10 pm, weekdays.
Streets are almost empty,
a lazy gust of wind
cools the darkness of night.

City lights are mirrored
in the slow black river,
pitch black,
moving lazily,
like thick molasses,
like oil.

And my hollow body
climbs the bridge
and drowns itself
in the pitch black darkness,
feeling the cold water
touching my naked skin
and clothing me
in thick blackness.

Filling the emptiness.

And everything ends,
every open door closes,
each breath could be your last,
you could turn a corner 
and everything could end.

So I let the river fill me,
fill me with its river soul,
because the river
has no end.




First published here.

One of my more recent poems. I was walking home one night by the riverside and it was pitch black except for some golden city lights. It was a very warm night and there was a strangely lazy breeze and the river just looked incredibly thick and oily and it was a strange, surreal feeling.