Channels

Streams of sobs cut so deep into the soul,

they float their memories as floods

through the dwelling places

of the mind.

 

But the heart refuses to drown,

builds its temples upon any waters,

finds the rafts to float

even when the river

covers the landscape

like a watery blanket.

 

In that gaze upon the rapids

inside their lingers the ark builder,

the defiant fingers who refuse

to be washed away by the storms.

 

Still the coldness and silence

stir their churning panic effervescence,

ever holding onto the timbers of sanity

while looking for life preserves

among the remnants of shelters

that drift by like last bits of paper,

those fragments of dreams that were submerse

by the tides that never hear your cries or laughter.