Mad River Running Poem by Gordon R Menzies

This woman's trust is a river running
a word pledged, instantly swept away
the water was black like her hair, her
overripe body a corpse on the bank
spent and gone to seed, racing madly
each day bankside, its taste altered
knowing her was staring into whirlpools
rapids ran under her skin and still do
she cuts herself on her own rocks
and realizes she has always done so
she turns and flows to any every passage
that gives way to her resistance
her constancy is fluid as the dark river
filth mires the substance of her waters
polluted by scheming companions
amused at her wayward weakness
supplied with jealous feeder streams
who despise her varied beauties
those moments sink like lost pebbles
and there is no ocean waiting at the end
to cleanse her unthoughtful passages
but a desert of falsehood, blood dry
barren of anything but ash and regret