..Hug the world and..
E   M   B   R   A   C   E
You don't have to love
Lose your steadfastness
Or even change the un
Be true and moral, grace
Tolerate, don't cheat or hate

Somedays I hate the way my own body heat, collects and is in entrapped within. In the arms of wind I nowtimes wish, that I could relax again and just for a moment be. Truly, cool and light, airy and free.

I hope that one day
She will come to me when she is tired
Because rest
The pure rest of a resounding peace
Is something which I too desire
And can provide her with

Dangling in a thread between darkness and light...

(The heart watches over it's fading memories... )

Drifting clouds play hide and seek in the garden of the crimson sky...

And the shadows wear garments to dance to the melody of the night...

(My mind still juggles the questions to answers and answers to questions it once could not fathom...)

Blackbirds circle the air promising to come back the other day...

The crickets prepare for night gala and the fireflies blow their torches to make less some darkness...

(The spirit inside of me bores over boulevard of the past and future that are a hue of ***** grey)

The setting sun begs me to stop itself from moving away...

And yet...

(My silent unsettling soul ends up settling itself to the impositions of twilight!)

Does the sunlight worry about its moonlight reflection?
When it cannot see stars either you or me?
No!
Because even in darkness it just sits back,
And with ice on its arm,
Breathes.

Every wooden sanded edge
Every rippling river smooth with skipping stones
And metal ridges sharper than swords well-hewn
The kind which pierces even the heavens reign
And pours down thunder like an autumnal coat
I know, I know, of even such a place
Where the summers howl and the winters winds
Gently blow out candlelight stars below
And there also you will find such out
In the pouring of the heart and soul
I am the one
No doubt

Your heart a grey sky scenic quaint
My brushes too cold unable to touch
Your fragrant sky now dark as storms
With stars like broken glass finely crushed

And I, and I, a dusty grain
In of a field of sandy wishes warm
Found nothing but a sharp memory pain
In the heel of my mind there sticks your thorn

Like tress unborn of acorn hopes
And buried wishes beneath dead stones
There rise and fall in the mind of see
Having since seen my dawning home

Peaking above the wavering trees
There our path beneath ever separates
And in turning hearts now etched in grey
Sketched out an open talk

Just to say that this is one of the many places
Though we once traversed, we will not walk

You are not just the hero within the pages of your own story. You are the vessel of intuition. The growing understanding of self-undiscovered, be it in the conscious or unconscious arena. Competing with all under the sun. You live not to forget or yourself become the great shining deeds by which you may never achieve relics. But to bear witness to the self and its finite attempts to grow steadily alongside the tree of life. And in standing therein, rooted, smile at your own death. Knowing a more practical end awaits you moving.