Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The crest.

It’s always so much like a waterfall. The slow and steady streams of life cascading down the rock.

Do they plunge into an abyss from which there is no return or world in which flow as once before?

Or do the waters meet their own, their kind waiting to catch the rest to pass on slowly in yet other streams which flow a way of their own?

One wonders at the edge, unable to see below. Looking out to a horizon which one can never touch, one which only ever exists on the furthest edge of sight.

And all of it begins with but a single plunge as that waterfall, the fall to fate and future.

Perhaps it is not that the journey is forever, chasing a horizon that will always be the horizon.

Perhaps great things can only come when all things are like water, and fall beyond that edge, never hesitating, never caring.

Funny how such simple things become all that ever was when one considers themselves the water at the crest of a waterfall.

 

 

 

A prompt response.

4 thoughts on “The crest.”

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