Every Year.

it is in the same place
I read of distorted rivers
that reflected me.
is it the memoir that threads souls,
or the darkness that thwarted hell.
everything becoming
is now overcoming.
the flesh is a soft bone
that fermented with likeness.
I see the future in my palms,
it is not broken
neither does it make banks.
I heard a river is envious
so it doesn’t tell of it seeing
the sky.

Ruddapoet