Revisited Banks

I look into the possessions, Of the Pampa; And the meaningless trees  prodding outward, From the further bank. I sit beside a ruined stairway, Sunk under the creepers; While the gurgles of the hungry tide, Suprises and bores coldly. I look again. While my mind wades, Through dismal dreams; I see, The outlying wrinkles on the flow; Adding that blissful chord(to that afternoon). The child-innocent, Prods for consideration. Its unexplainable, But the amount of warmth it gives; Of some lost brother dying to converse, In its helpless slumber and flow. It is unknown why, When i am secluded; The river grows into me. Reminds me, The meaninglessness of life; Yet, body feels so dear. The breeze assists me to discern, The greater mark of voidness, Enclosed within me. It enters through my pierced body, Reaches at parts; Where i am not a creature, Yet a wisp of dust; Floating on the mysteries of creation. They say that the brook doesnt have a memory. I heed not to think. The coziness and the remeniscences, That it gave; Cant be washed away. The blind utterences, The deaf visions; Cant be grazed. The mark i'll always bear. Having stayed long, To see the sun kiss it. I turn back, Preparing to repeat my steps. Saying farewell to the essence, And convene with the; Ramparts of the city life. All does end. I take some water beads in my hands, They willingly flow away.