Follow the channel further upstream

Somewhere there is a place...
where winds flow a certain way, 
indicting all but the plains to its method of decay,
splinters to wood, shards to glass, 
rust to metal, and grief to those of men that are lit up bright:
those who remain, yet, strangers to intent, 
extortion, and greed,
engulfed in an embrace of will and mind, 
intertwined by hope.
Here there is perpetual day, 
no shade or nights,
no lust of the flesh, or mind, 
no rain to flood the streets, 
hefty riverbanks to negate the winds—
it flows straight, with great pace, 
into the lakes down hill.

There is then a delta riddled with big cats, 
and trees that develop roots above the land, 
and breathe much like the men that fish, hunt and kill.
A grim day often invites illusion of sight, 
and for man to question empathy and creed, 
clearing patches of forest on a whim, 
the wood rots, driving its purpose to naught.

Then is then the sea,
where the river ends—the last of its leads.
Here is a great divide, in fishes of the river, and the sea:
fated to never coexist or meet, 
the seas saline, and resistant to frost—
utter stagnation wrought into a being.
Then there was the river:
always in a state of change, 
void of salt which plagued the drain.

There is then the tendency of man,
to feel, inherit and repeat that which precedes itself,
and the instinct to draw a line—
make one to distribute on to either side;
to then fare the odds,
pick the lesser of the right, 
and then condemn, ostracise or abolish, 
and boast, celebrate and and extol the other;
never realising the most fundamental flaw:
the assumption that every matter is divisible into odds.
People that tread halfway this trail of thought rarely recover—
after realising the flaw and their inability to act, 
or resolve the task at hand.

There is a place at last, 
where they conglomerate, people of all sorts.
They commemorate the passing of life, 
and indulge in a course of pleasures advertised in the afterlife.
But the area remains out of bounds, and indiscernible, 
much like all fables of man.
Unwilling to ponder, or answer,
or be subject to contest—
consuming itself to impose authority,
and realise itself—
the act, the person, the thought,
have all willed a moral, stagnated, impending end.