Rivers of The Frail, Prevail




Title art by Rimel Neffati. Click image to visit her studio



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Billy Joel “River of Dreams”




Suddenly, the frail were no longer so
The pain was no less constant
Ever present like before
However, this affliction isn’t be all, neither end all
Need not dictate the lonesome fates of those awaiting nothing great
Compose a letter to the devil better known as rate declining
Sign our death certificates and toe tag our resolve, once steely
Make us feel that we will never make advance past very nearly


Dancing in the dark, imparted chronic lack of tonic
Every twinge tectonic as it curb stomps fresh horizons
Comprising knack for setting back, while auctioning our fade to black
Our eyes roll back, our lips they purse
To scream a thousand reams of curse
Ribbons of forgotten worth as life has soundly thrashed us
Fingers burned, harsh lessons lingering and precious little fit to learn as we turn briskly into ashes


Fashioning a dead-end from the means which led us to it
Passion at the back-end, pending solitary reason to proceed to face the agony and push on bleeding through it


Cannot breathe, all oxygen depleted through retreating
Tough to make the summit once we covet the distraction of inaction set against a pain with no tact for receding
All the while, we’re bleeding
Feeding thoughts that we are all alone
That nobody on this blue planet cares what we are going through
Streaming tears into a river blind as to the flow of where it’s going to
Dreaming of Nirvana, while it drifts off even farther into slipstream


Leading nowhere fast, we glance at faith to bail us out
If only we could hail the trail of sightseeing devout
If only we could trust our twisted guts when they send signal
If only life weren’t so goddamn provisional


Revision of the blind, inclined to burrow down inside us
Biding time until such time as we provide the light a window
Peeking through the blinds inverted, more inclined to widen search and find the inner sight required to guide us through the quagmires of our hogwash blighted minds


Told there is no cure for ties that bind us in the barb of wire
Lost in all the gossamer of gossiping suggestion that we warrant not a mention for the endless trend of suffering
Howbeit, should we buffer just enough to form a narrow squint
Then maybe we can entertain the glint of distant diamonds


Remind ourselves that similar provisions lie within us
Enable the blind faith to take a leap towards the grate and break a cycle long perpetuating through each pained recital
Reach out with inviting hands, accept R.S.V.P. and do so graciously
Dare to dream in nightmare noir, for abattoirs need not empower scenes disgraceful faced in twos or threes


Three motherfucking hundreds if we all just bleed together
Heal together
Keep on hurting
Just remember
Not alone
Souls revealing
Sense in feeling
Fleeing murder scene
Amidst the crimson river flowing


Someone on this blue planet cares exactly what we’re going through
Streaming happy tears into a river never ever blind as to the cadence, rhythm, ebb and flow of where it’s going to


Not overwhelmed or drowning
Taking refuge here amidst the eye of storm
A single grain of sand surmounting ever stretching beaches worth of joy


Suddenly, the frail were seen…







Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill



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