You laugh at them. You point your finger and call them a fool. Their silence amuses you, their gentleness becomes your joke, and the crowd joins your laughter as if kindness were weakness. It feels enjoyable today, sweet on your tongue like careless victory. Their patience becomes your stage, their humility your entertainment. But time is a quiet witness. It watches without speaking, It writes its lessons slowly in the turning pages of life. A day will come When laughter turns into tears. The echoes of your mockery will return to your own ears like thunder across an empty sky. Situations will arise without warning, storms without hands to beat you Yet heavy enough to break your pride. Pain will arrive quietly, And you will feel the trembling of a heart that once laughed too loudly. And that fool, that funny person you once mocked, may stand in the distance, not laughing, but witnessing your tears, your shaking voice, Your falling ego. For life has a patient way of bending the tallest p...
The river ran with a restless heart,
Carrying stories from mountain stone.
It knew the curves of valleys well,
And sang in a voice it called its own.
The sea waited, wide and calm,
A breathing blue with salted skin.
It spoke in tides and moonlit pulls,
Inviting all the waters in.
But the ocean roared with deeper drums,
Ancient, vast, too large to plead.
It did not ask the river’s will,
It claimed all endings as its creed.
The river fought with foaming cries,
Clinging to banks it used to know.
“I have a name, a path, a past—
I am not ready to let go.”
The sea softened the river’s rage,
Mixed its sweet with salted tears.
Promised rest, not erasure,
A merging calm beyond its fears.
Yet the ocean opened its endless mouth,
Where borders blur, and currents twist.
There, the river lost its edges,
And became what it resisted.
No battle left a wound or scar,
No victor stood upon the sand.
Only a quiet transformation,
Where water learns to understand.
For every river meets this fate:
To travel far, then disappear.
Swallowed not by cruelty or war,
But by something vast, sincere, and near.
And in that conflict without sound,
Where endings look like rebirth’s face,
The river dies to be everywhere—
A small life claimed by endless space. π
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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