The Riverman

(this week I imitate Thomas Hardy. basically lots of rhyming with imbalanced lines. oh yeah and DOOM.)

I've known many men
but every now and then
I find my thoughts returning to the Riverman again.

He was born and raised
into love, fear and praise,
yoked under his parents' fervid religious craze.

He grew up on his own
with a prison for a home,
but he found comfort in the river when he couldn't stand being alone.

He refused to stay confined,
so leaving the forest behind
and carrying a trusting and immovable faith, he bid his parents goodbye.

But his brand new life
under big-city lights
corroded the iron wills of him and his young wife.

His son's breath was seized
by the fatal maw of disease
and his wife chose over madness a divine, eternal sleep.

Now in the city still
he was forced to stay until
he could begin to pay off all his son's medical bills.

I used to talk to this man
when he would work my land,
crippled under the weight of things he couldn't understand.

He told me, "Son, don't listen
to the priest or the deacon.
They preach real pretty, but they're both of 'em just lyin'. "

I would catch him casting looks
down toward the deep woods.
I think the river was the one thing that he still understood.

He just needed to hear
that rushing in his ear.
He said he was leaving Jesus for a place far better than here.

He disappeared one day.
I was told he'd run away.
I can see him on the miry banks, kneeling in the mud to pray.

He stands and wades in now,
lets the water take him down.
The only thing he ever understood was that peaceful rushing sound.