As if late, the mighty river rushes head on,
To an end that, it finds, is already gone.
Winding, impatient, carrying useless debris,
Cutting  a path as far as any eye can see.

Moved by a force that is all of it's own,
Recklessly moving towards the unknown.
With a passion that it can not explain,
A tributary veering off from the main.

And we, like the river, urge right on ahead,
So weary, yet rushing, until we are dead.
Picking up baggage for which we have no need,
Tossed about, powerless and drowning indeed.

Yet there is a shore on which we can stand.
Just walk in faith, the way it was planned.
But until we can quiet our own inner will,
We will run like that river, and never be still.