The River

The river with no cares runs cold
No sympathy for the young or old
Jetsam passes
Flotsam flows
Washed up into the poets brain
And where he is he will remain
Crying into tear stained hands
Dreaming of a warmer land
Lying on his fetid bed
All night his heart and soul he bled
Mindless in that empty room
He longed to be back in the womb.