A river of sorrow growls against the walls,
of alliances shattered in haste;
No more the combined resources,
no more the time to waste.

Pretending enemies are at the gate,
only serves to horribly ignite;
The words that display the devil's hate,
never knowing what's wrong or right.

Piecing lives together in waters' sanctity,
the sacred flow of our cherished dreams;
We need to touch one another's hearts,
devoid of reckless plots and schemes.

If the universe would grow from peace,
and not fill one another's space;
With horrid tales from mindless sources,
we can finally win this timeless race.

There in the corner lies a quilt,
of dazzling colors and ancient lore;
Through heritage we salute our flag,
from every mountain and every shore.

And this tribute symbolizes our faith,
in people who have lived before;
The honored works of pioneers,
have built castles that we adore.

Yet long before our ancestors came,
courageous folk with skin so dark;
Were huddled together on the plains,
protecting their land from shotgun's spark.

The fights between the White and Red,
spurred on the legacy of hateful minds;
Many years passed before our hearts,
reached out to the first Americans' sign.

And still it goes 'round and 'round,
with refugees suffering at our border;
No way to escape their turbulent lives,
they came to us for some law and order.

We shouldn't shut the doors on them,
compassion rules through our daily bread;
And so just as the Natives have claimed,
we still carry on with hearts of lead.

Rising through the sweat of ancestors' fears,
innate suffering leaves me bound;
Despite the black and white of day,
I wearily search for uncommon sounds.

Resting my head upon wisdom's watch
sensing calamity from hollow chants;
As voices within my heart rage on,
curiously whining in rebellious rants.

No longer expecting insanity's game,
(it had possessed me throughout the years;)
The mere notion of reaching back in time,
seals untold tales still rallying near.

And whether candles mark the night,
my faded hope for resurrection;
Bequeaths whatever sails far away,
to enhance the moment's rejection.

With blind ambition tumbling 'round,
in the stark wilderness of the seas;
I say good-bye with a solemn pledge,
while disappearing from the deep abyss.

Fanciful visions of crescent moons,
a heightened aura of crystalline light;
Miniature stars dangling like mobiles,
dancing and twinkling all through the night.

Blithe spirits gather to share their mirth,
floating across a royal velvet sky;
Whimsical turns on the carousel of time,
let loose a string of planetary fireflies.

Meteor showers spark a fiery scene,
while arousing angels' elation;
Of wildly stoked embers which scatter and burn,
Soaring by with lightning's exhilaration.

Vivid colors sharpen in umbrellas of stripes,
whirling gracefully through the cosmos;
This imagery paints a portrait sublime,
a miraculous window exposing the universe.

When eyes are wide open to heaven's adventures,
accepting spectacular visual arrays;
Thoughts mirror reflections of a complex world,
vitally enriching our souls every day.

As I sit and write this story,
I wonder if someone will see;
How much I want to live and learn,
and ultimately, be free.

It reminds me of the willow tree,
that weeps a symphony;
Caressing the ground as it lazily swings,
its flowing leaves in harmony.

Does the willow tree ever find some sleep,
or is it always awake to pray ?
For those of us lost in a frantic world,
for those who have so much to say...?

...But have no one to share their inner thoughts,
except with the willow tree;
Which sits so languidly on the hill,
a grand vision for all to see.

The rain keeps it fresh, damp and cool,
when each heart hears a sad goodbye;
And it lays its branches upon your soul,
with deep comfort within its sigh.

I love the sound the willow makes,
as the breeze floats through its leaves;
With fading memories of days long past,
no more chance for me to grieve.

Willows weep and give us hope,
even though their branches cry;
For Nature is a gift to show the way,
and sing us all a sweet lullaby.

There's a small child walking down the street,
while holding his mother's hand;
He looks so peaceful, safe, and content,
with the life that God has planned.

Mom assures him that school will be fun,
and he runs off to meet his friends;
His smile is glowing, kind and sweet,
he may never want the day to end.

And while he sits at his tiny desk,
a gentle spirit arises before him;
It speaks of kings and far-off lands,
and miracles in a world unknown.

His eager mind absorbs it all,
and color fills his freckled cheeks;
The lovely spirit moves about,
she knows of what she speaks.

The day has passed and mother waits,
as the children rush to the yard;
And memories shared from this magical day,
will come forth from this little boy's heart.

Reading between the lines of love,
I recognized this tale of woe;
It sizzled with a panicky voice,
and growled with anger rising slow.

The parchment pages rustled handily,
my fingers framed each word;
Perspiring now my hands were soaked,
in images which propelled the sword.

But no tears arose from mockery or shame,
while reading the familiar flow;
Of my gallant efforts to show the world,
there was more to my work than show.

Yet somehow in the gruesome night,
a thief had coveted my manuscript;
As I stood aghast in the bookstore,
each stolen page I hastily began to rip.

Can anyone else ever possibly know,
how very startling it is to see;
A literary fraud which breaks apart,
the inspiration for a writer's purity.