We sat quiet by the stream under saturated sky
Outstretched a branch upon I sat, the unsuspecting spy
Resting on the water's ledge you waited patiently
While I sat and entertained your talk of poetry
In my right hand a bitter-sweet depreciated drink
Relentlessly inching towards the free and flowing creek
To drown in sin or dive right in?
I want to be the creek
I want to be the creek
Your words drove deep over water's skim
The branch began to shake
Beside the ground looked awful cold
It sure could used some heat
So I dropped the cider and stirred some soil
A babbling mystique
Ending months of prior for
The ideal half a week
The ideal half a week