Maybe, challenge  that   shadows   but    are    words  and
maybe  you       sincerely.      it     in    believe   pride,  seems,
just       to          merely    the    discover   so       their       it
once    see          in         meaning  inside.   hide   in         as
you     clearly.   circles    my      message  will    breathe  solemn
will     love    extremes   dearly,     so         you     can        forever,
find     me           in           my        dreams,  where  reality  rests

I wander through the mist,
the heavy air by sunlight kissed,
yet now too late to dissipate,
crushing, unrelenting weight,
maybe we can coexist.
The sodden earth beneath me lay
trodden normally on by day,
though now was overcast by gray,
the fog that did persist,
the bog would not decay,
I wished that I could stay.
But then ahead appeared a light,
to my dismay, far out of sight,
how could it be, as dark as night
I thought it was today.
A slimy serpent crossed my path,
and with a smile, hissed,
humbled by its vile wrath,
I wander through the mist.

Arrogant we are
each night, and night again,
to look upon a sea of stars
where not a soul has been,
and still believe if we were gone
the moon would cease to yawn;
no one would remember
that it's slumber brought the dawn.
The wind that whispers in our ear,
echoing the Earth,
in a way intends to say
"Recall who gave you birth,
for although you grow in number,
you really needn't fear,
I'm not as frail or fragile as I apparently appear."
And then She sheds a solemn tear,
which we mistake for blood,
when in reality
She's seen many a flood.
Though I suppose it could be sweat,
as such a weight we are to bear,
burdensome, like morning dew
is to mountain air.
We silly children never care
to overestimate our Mother,
foolish as we ever are
to think She won't recover,
yet should She decide to turn aside,
weary of our humble pride,
naught would stand between us
and Her fires gold and waters wide.

What if the voice inside your head
that tells you when you are at fault,
is not your own, not yours at all,
for why would someone self-assault?
What if the words that ramble on
about that which you should amend,
really are the voice of God,
that which one couldn't comprehend?

Silly fool sits astride a flame for two,
and forgives those who hasten to perspire,
and although a shame, a kindle tame,
the urge to feel desire,
it can't be much to look at
when you're standing in a fire.

If you are here
and I am there,
neither one of which is fair
to the other,
and another thing I swear,
the space between us
leaves no room to spare,
nor to uncover.

The little ants they march along,
in neat thin lines they heed no foe,
they march without a gallant song,
well of course, they're ants, you know?
The bird swoops in and spies a meal,
moves in, scoops up, moves out,
the kid behind the victim feels a gap,
fills it, no doubt.
The late ant crushed into a dream
has made no anthill poor,
he's not remembered by his queen,
she has a thousand more.
The kid who filled the empty space
did dare to look around,
he saw his mindless, friendless race
that lived without a sound.
The child was a little one,
his feelers still not grown,
he hadn't lost his will to think
yet kept this truth unknown.
But then he saw his army's course,
a bird that blocked their path,
so he broke free without remorse
and found a looking glass.
While his peers were all consumed at once
by the fattened, frenzied foe,
the little one was burned alive
by a beast in child's robes.
So in the end the story's sad,
the hero conquered none,
and his brothers too are also ******
so now this story's done.