They turned to the river.
Some shackles were due for a shaking.
Rifts developed leaving only loneliness.

They listened, listened for the song
that would deliver them from upheaval.

Hours went by like skyrockets.
A cool breath rose from the hills,
and all was a frieze. There was reminiscing,
introspection, and regret.

Their fragile faith collapsed
initiating a “moment-of-truth.”
They buried their heads in their chests,
refusing even to speak.

The song they had sought died unsung.

-r. miller


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