Soft in crystal glade she glides.
Rose pink effect about her face.
Lavender to safely guide,
O're sun kissed trail & sacred space.
Oh, peace of mother's, gift my anchor,
your calm and rest and presence.
Mid solstice noir's sleeping banquet
& wind blessed frosted verdant essence.
Voices shared with drum and strings
'round that warm and open room.
Echo longed for simpler things,
as joy vouchesafed communal womb.
So, rain may fall, this too shall pass,
and clean present Shambhala new.
Dawning shoes and skis on mass,
our guide braves cold to lead her cue.
Where to travel, these intrepid?
Niflheim, Hyperborea or Thule?
All in an afternoons progression,
twixt snows of white and sky's of blue.
Exertion, an offering to the gods.
Returned as epiph of our state.
All are able in Nature's broad
embrace of hands and hearts and fates.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 7:42 AM UTC
Nothing. is. real.
faces on the shaddowed clocks
and someday's sideways looks.
they know it.
knowing burns clean.
it lives in cracks of thoughts
on scraps of promised doubts.
you feel it.
feeling finds you.
frees you from the understood
to peel you of your vatic good.
embrace it.
touching begins.
stretch out your fingered hope
carress this hole inside the known
of lies so old they find a film of feelings
spade-scared-dark below the promised diggings.
open up the reel it's in.
unwrap it's torn cold linen.
it's what you're wanting.
clutch at what's within.
...and know it's Nothing.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC