Their eyes
Will always
Look down
On you
Their hearts
Will never
Change

So warm
Your hearts
In solitude
A hearth
Of poetic  
Flames...

Nobody cried. Nobody cared.
A couple of eyes were in despair.
And on the tombstone, it was inscribed:
"Committed social suicide".

the
slow drip
of accumulated
moisture,
sliding
from
leaf to leaf
accentuated
by clear
bell-like bird
calls

myriad
shades of
green
and brown,
glistening
in sharp
shafts
of smoking sunshine,
that shifts at
each
wind's gust

far from the sidewalk
and
rat race running
we immerse ourselves
in primitivea
trekking
along tracks
seeking nothing more
than
the next step
the next vista,
revelling in our
cavemanesque
selves

We
unwind,
leaving
ribbons of
stress to
flutter
behind us
before
they
disappear
into mist
and then
become
zephyr
breeze
breaths
Each step
lighter
unburdened
we become more
fae and less
humane...
Working
not for the
daily bread
or even
the
eating
of it
But we come
for the
presence of the green
the prior
in ourselves.
the interaction
Simple cell
recalling
simple cell
and sighing
in relief
at finding
friend.

So wr
as our
collection
of priors
find places
mordial
and gather
to worship
To release
The inner
covers
of civility
and stand
in the grace
of the green