Mosaics in the garden.
Our room for living is pale yellow and full red,
where we may peer towards that rosy garden,
that tiled, speckled, slathered garden.

I see a Chinese bay beyond,
for all manner of junk floats the streetish high-seas
in the again gale of afternoon.

Gained is rain and then asked for is sunshine.
So received is sunshine. Blessed, felt, caressed is sunshine.
Light seems to be the pearl,
purling away from the oysterich air, whose desires to chase
are full of joy;

so I see the game from from this room,
pale yellow and filled red.

So many paths on which to orbit the teeming world,
one that is not worse as folk say
or please to think.
Because I am pleased to think,
of the current calm, which is not common,
found in these
all things....

Of mosaics in the garden
and beyond of ships.
Of light, of rain,
and overall of sunshine.

Time begins to run together,
several Olympians spread out.
And in their rushing they ford the same pace,
forge the same face,
until just one runner runs the race...
Thus time runs together.
Its followers cease to worship difference,
for they find none.
The farmer is as his absent crop: absent.
And the river boats between the reeds, empty of its fisherman.

Today is similar to its precursor
we call yesterday.
Tomorrow is just as uninspiring.
I break the legs of completed things
and projects are idle in the sky.
For time runs together
and change does nowhere play its game.
The same living room window holds the same, repeated light.

My brother yells.
Bed time has arrived with the night:
a panther on the window sill.
Purring away. His protests are slurring away.
My brother yells. No sleep. Play...Stay.....

The good cat sighs, "Come with me!"
Why?
"Because I'll die."
Oh?
"Soon by the morning's light."
Oh.
"Would you deny my last request?"
No.
He would not.
"Come with me."

Brave. My brother yells.
I'll save Baghira! he yells.
I'll save him. To bed!
"Sweet boy.
Hero boy.
My tail salutes you, boy."
His tail salutes the boy.

Paws yawn. The cat smiles...
My brother.

Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like dust...
Or do they sound like gray rain?
Slight beige cast ahead, above, and to world's end.
Such a tumultuous realm.
Green leaves dotting the trees like drunkards. They beg up for a drink. And slur in the breeze.
Thunder, rumble of a Royal Enfield, somewhere by the sun or moon;
Somewhere by the source of dust, gale, or gray and pale rain....
Rush.
Dirt wind.
The pitter-patter.
Clouds sound like indecision.
A slight calm-down is cast ahead,
Above,
And to world's end.

As I lay dying,
my sin has youth.
Who tells me that this match is fair?
An old man
against his spirit and soul darkly,
with only surrendering will as key and sword.
The weights and counter-weights are
undone.
How the scales tips...
I am no more than grain for the war, scarfed down by either starved side.
I feel the last ravaged stalk in a barren field...
How the scales of God tip.

Nocturnes sing, flowers grow and
Playful shadows stretch the distance between you and I.
Little gray children,
With little gray fingers,
Clutch my color to their little gray chests.
They play their games around me
In hopes that I will smile.
Little gray hands play peek-a-boo
In hopes that I will smile.
And I must give them what they hope for
to then be on my quiet way.
Nocturnes sing, flowers glow and
Playful shadows stretch the distance between you and I.
Little gray hearts ****** into my ears.
The shimmer beats lull and
Those little gray shadows get what they hope for.
The Voice calls me home....
Nocturnes sing, flowers flow
And
Playful shadows stretch the distance.......
Between you and I.