#WritcoPoemPrompt6
The river that flows down the hill,
Is never able to be a moment still,
The rocks and pebbles at it's edge,
Lie as steady as the dead.

That's the thing about us,
Forgetting the greens of tress,
And the blues of sky,
And the birds that are about to fly.

We see the things flourishing around,
Some making itself camouflage with brown,
While...