The grating dissonance of a poem that is supposed to rhyme,

But does not.

Forced words. Hurt.

A flow of words appearing in prose, don’t.

Yet well placed words, like river rocks,

Just the right distance apart as you leap from one to another,

Safely reaching the other side.

That exhilarating feeling of not having gotten wet.

Those words have fallen naturally into place,

Just as those river rocks, being forced only by nature,

By water and earth’s movements,

Creating kind of a chaotic beauty that human hands could never form.

Pleasing to the eyes and to the ears as the water that gives life, rushes over them.