An estuary of decomposing
    virtues, bloated references
weave on the silence of a stream
                             of hidden dread.  

Trying to hide the crimes of yesterday,
                flowing beyond their view.
But everything will eventually
                                caress the shores
of what was washed beyond their guilt.


Nothing that is washed away
         will ever be kept secret.
For everything will find a river
                                             of truth.
To be seen and deemed in dismay.
            Life isn't a river to be washed away.