The river rushed through stone and stubborn hill,
and hit a wall of rock that held its ground —
she'd moved through mountains, never once stood still,
so why was this the place she couldn't get around?
She'd given everything — her depth, her might,
had worn down harder walls on harder days.
Did worthy water not deserve its right?
Did honest rivers lose themselves in maze?
She turned — unwilling, sharp, against her way,
a detour she had never stopped to choose.
The bend felt wrong, the current went astray,
like someone else had laced up all her shoes.
But every twist was teaching her the land,
each forced turn carving valleys, soft and wide
what felt like loss was quietly being planned,
a sea she simply couldn't see inside.
She met the ocean on a still, pale dawn,
not where she'd mapped, not how she'd dreamed the end,
and realised every wall she'd beaten on
was just God's way of teaching her to bend.
