True Grit
I am a boat, my belly below water, floating and crashing over perilous waves. Before me lay a pillar of stone, splitting my path in two different ways. Behind me my past lay littered swirling around me, bottles and broken bits of wood, spilt oil and tar. Did it really matter, or was it all trash, leading me to where I am now?
From the stone comes a voice, tiny and quiet echoing in the gulls and pores; it poses a question: Which way, which way?
The streams, both narrow and dark, one roaring the other meandering.
The First:rushing and growing, fraught with excitement and peril, clashing, raging, glorious.
The second: crawling, fighting, sluggish at times, but filled with quiet brooks, lazy nights, and a places to lie down.
Which way? Which way?
Alas, I have no choice, for fate is my quick-tongued captain who points me where to go then lets me fly.
If I had a rudder with which to steer, still I think I would let go, throw my hands to the sky and let the water push me, pull me, smash me against the ragged reef.
Thursday, thursday, thursday; you come ever so soon.
