Washed Away

I wrote you poem about all the things I was scared to feel.
But I took it outside beside my Father’s forgotten fire-wood pile,
And burned it.
The paper ignited quickly, and soon the words were lost.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and the air felt heavy.
When the rain came, it washed the ashes away in puddle down the run of my back-yard.
So much, soaked and carried away by the small current.
Water.

“You are like water,” he told me once, barely taking time to cease plucking the strings of his worn-out acoustic.
“You can carve a path through anything.”
I smiled.
“And like water,” he said, lowering his voice slightly,
“No one will ever hold you.”
That was the day for a lot of things.

That was the day I learned the sound of loneliness.

That was the day the rains flooded the river,
And washed away the abandoned mill on the outskirts of town.

And that was the day I learned that even the clouds have to cry sometimes.

Reviews

[Mauricio Montoya]

Poetry is always open to interpretation what I get from this piece is that
Some how I get the water and fire is some kind of closure to a past event this poem is telling a story in where you, only you have the answer to the riddle that could set you free. But I could be wrong because the last four lines take it in a different direction. Nevertheless great job well done.