slippery with water and mold,
leading to a swaying boat,
Which promises hope.
Nervous, unsure, she climbs on board.
Firming her weak foothold.
Settling on the blue wood bench,
next to a coil of rope.
Her eyes mirror the rushing stream,
swirling dregs of a broken dream.
Like rotting flowers on a temple street,
after the prayers are done.
The shore blurs with the boat's sway,
towards that fabled gateway,
where dark waters gather shine,
touched by the morning sun.
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