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.
