Sunday, November 29, 2015


The coil
 A bell
  That orb
   These seeds  

Songs that cry across heavens

Reeds swaying in a breeze

Cosmic dust microscopic in size

Told and retold stories meld

Within narratives of time 

It does not live

It cannot die

Yet it ponders to itself

What am I?

Child of grass
Keeper of tales
Owner of all
Saved for the veils
Prescience and ignorance
Can this be 
Nay tis a lie
To Be naught to bee

Is there nothing more

said the bird to the stone

There is often much more to sew

Go run and go play ye child of light

Mind manners be not bold

Though aware moods still are bright

Fly a day mid-summer’s kite

Nothing ventured nothing owed

Fulfill yon prophecy fore ye get old

The truths will ever remain untold.

No comments:

Post a Comment