I call you from my river of flux
and you confidently come out
of your thick forest of morality,
where I once resided.
The trees are your guideposts,
and you wave to me as I toss
and tumble and glisten with mud
amid the rapids that are my life.
There will never come a day
when you join me, as I do not wish
my fate upon you, and there will never
come a day on which I may regain entry
to your forest.
My acts are your sins,
yet you are more forgiving
than your gods, as you are entertained
by what you view as rebellious acts
which are, in fact, merely my truth.
You say we will meet one day
when the dead will live again,
yet you ignore the fact that even
when reborn, I will still be
the river person I am,
and you will remain
in need of the trees,
that are now your guideposts.
I suspect, even if your dreams
come true, I will be forever doomed
to separation from you, yet you shall wave
with pity and wonder,