The Rush of A Lie
Ancient mountains swept with snow,
where a dropp of water begins to flow,
is the birthplace of a small stream,
and something I would never dream.
Streams turn to rivers great,
that make sure not to be late,
that go towards swamps and bogs,
and they keep going into the fog.
Have you not yet reached the ocean,
where all the world is set in motion?
Your waters have rushed,
fed by the clouds' every flush.
You've left such beauty behind,
just for bogs and fog to find.
Your droplet has grown;
at me your lies are thrown.
poem by Soren Valentine
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
