Another lonely walk in the bush, I find a shallow puddle.
Glaze through the misty water, I see nothing but clouds of restlessness.
Not even a clear reflection of myself.
Winds blow—the dead leaves follow the filth where the clutter huddles.
Resembling a special attraction to filth—filth of corruption.
I wait for the winds to settle, slowly picking the debris, hoping for a clearer vision.
But the more I clear it the hazier it becomes.
Like the leaves, maybe I should go with the flow.
Seems like we are bound to follow the dirt:
the ill willed; rather than good.