Not a river but a patch work
Which I wrap myself up in
Not natural but crafted
Part reality but stitched with my own desires
Threaded with seeds of intent
Obscured, disjointed, fragmented
Shards and rubble which
I pick up loose and plaster together with deception
Constructing monuments to the past
I stand in their shadow
And pretend like they sprung from the ground like flowers
But what are lies only a memories made false by coincidence?
