“Our depth is a shallow
In the seas of being
The iris of existence.
Our ideas…
Warmth and cold.
Oil pastels…
Upon the pupil.”
“Our depth is a shallow
In the seas of being
The iris of existence.
Our ideas…
Warmth and cold.
Oil pastels…
Upon the pupil.”
What if a thought, perhaps a few,
In every snowflake that fell for you,
Where to chime in its own way?
They all would, though indifferently…
Theirs is not a frosty hymn.
I know they came from a warmer spring.
Past the mountains in unknown groves,
A sun implored them… and now lets go.
I am the moment which lives through your breath.
And if skipped will pray the joys of death.
Feel me as you feel all the relived lost,
That you see me at a memories cost.
I will be waiting in times emptiness,
Where we will be born of our childishness.
And we are swept away in soft silence,
Clothed by a language of our past instance.
“What turns life so? About?”
Be it hush or shout
Do say a magic word,
Something moment spurred.
Holds her petals firm,
And for moments they flutter,
Not flight, no, they fall.
I have walked among the clouds,
And where are they now?
There is no welcome to the sky,
That isn’t whispered in your sigh.
Had I been ready to pray,
When we sat beneath the oak,
What would have I to say,
If I hadn’t listened to these folk.
It’s not that careless I came,
Or that my spirit’s stern,
But nothing is the same
When I hear the oak and fern.
In the ruins of disenchantment
Parrables of suffering
Lay amongst the orchids of beauty.
Here the heart labors
Where the soul
Has been patient.
Winds sweep away
Ruins and blooms…
Wanderers too.
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