The Stream Still Flows

The stream still flows,
The stream, or windows...
Eyes of the blackened refuge
Of the damned.

They have no place,
Living or dying,
They lie!

But did you know,
'Time still passes us'?
Yes, it flies!

No wood to build my fire,
No wood.
And the car still rusts,
By the rain.
Does it feel any pain?

And yet,
There is still a flag on the moon,
Besides footprints and golf balls.
While laughter rocks the world of cement,
And tires are sold at the gas station.
They must be there, tis decreed by the King.

Herod was a King.
Kings die.

I saw a boy running,
His dog was in the street.
Dog died, boy crying.

Chairs set in corners,
Tea sets on tables,
I saw a gun in a drawer.
Still it sits there, alone.

The maid makes the bed,
Students do homework,
And Presidents cry.
With so much truth,
No one needs to lie.

Does the arrow land?
Does the wall move?
Does the child get scared?
Are you sure,
Are you sure,
Sure, God cares?

End. Stop. Finish.
The essence of the universe
Has been drained away,
Bottled up,
And put on a shelf.
For no one uses it anymore.

And still, the stream flows.

by Sandra Osborne

Comments (3)

A poem on my list of favourites on this site Best wishes Michael Witkowski
Very deep you really gave it to them really had a bite kept the flow hit them with the truth, there a lot to sandra we dont know thank you sandra With a warmth allan
This must be a work from your early life, but it is interesting how you briefly illuminate several things that are real and go on all the time, while never losing track of the stream which, regardless does his thing. H