reaching 20.

Silent stream.
Down to the river.
Flowing breeze,
why need to speak?
This boat,
never feels a presence of being(s).
This boat,
was carefully built, manufactured, designed, polished,
but never ridden on.
Once it sank,
by the time it floats,
the water against its own nature.
Golden leaves falling, filling my empty feeling.
As the needle keeps ticking,
my stream remains silent.