Poem: There is More To This.

Always heading somewhere,
it flows from end to end,
no one certain of where either end begins,
you’ll find it mid way,
half way between where it started from
and where it’d soon be coming from
yet it flows, without our help
unconcerned about opinions
unbound by timeframes,
disobedient to frequencies
up and down, and all around, it flows
have you stopped to wonder,
recently,
what makes the blood flow?
without which we’d cease to exist
and with it, we hunt deers and race cars
have you wondered, without stopping,
recently,
how, if possible,
could the force that makes blood flow
be different
from that which make rivers run?
without which we’d cease to exist
with it, we can cool off
in our bathing suits, looking busy, doing nothing.
Continuously they both flow,
cleansing waste, while renewing faith
all around us is the presence of that we choose not to see
more mysteriously, inside of us
is the evidence we choose not to recognize.