Sometimes, it's best to be still
Quiet like the remorse of an impulsive statement
Quiet as your dreams, daydreams
To be still, like life
Quiet like the silence of mental strife
Your own mind, to feel once again
It's not tangible like the heaviness of a room
Filled with grief
What you've been told versus what you think
Sometimes isn't even comparable
Whispers of enlightenment dance around your feet
The difference between what you've been told
And what you think

The journey of opening minds to dreams
Watching life hallowed by superficial means
Instead, peace is to follow gentle streams
Harking sounds so delicate, as moonlight beams
Strive not to conduct life with expectations, as if it were a train
Following a path so perfectly laid
Using an umbrella instead of trusting the rain
Using natural existence as reason for bane
Do not fear the storms, as they have existed for far longer than we
Revere instead the intensity and power we see
The serenity of tree-form tranquility
Sometimes, the luster of nature brings one to their knees

Ice blue, fluorite lights
Brisk and windy Autumn nights
Trees silhouetted against beautiful sights
Lights reaching fantastic UFO heights
A shiver away from icicle, frozen
Buoys float on water in space wide open
Life letting leave on those things broken
Water lapping shores like lava molten
Whispers in rocks surrounding each path
Knowing tales of days-passed and aftermath
A spindly tree feathered with its repeated bath
Moonlight washing away all that's wrath
Not trading here for a million or two gold
You could offer a mansion with no sign of sold
Each passing boat of enlivening cold
Remembers stories of today that were never told

A catamaran whooshes past
Epilogued by the propeller with which it steers
Marking each and every ripple
Without hesitation, without fear
I'll take the next wave

Drowning out through seeping acrylic
Unconventional canvas on a rickety easel
Not even possessing the power to paint
The broken wing of a broken swan
Despite her weakened frailty
She paints
Using her beak, using her feet
The swan finds it consoling to know
That the littlest, infinitesimal purposes
Are purposes
None the same

Walk, the coals beneath my feet
Searing at my skin
Why is this pain not felt?
Thick skin? Loss of nerves?
A blast through the wall of reality
Draws unto the leering smile
I'm grinning as I'm pulled under
My body is on fire
Why is this pain not felt?
Thick skin?

The Yorkshire Rose, elegantly perched on the bridge
This was not London, or the palace
nor Manchester, where Mancurians are free
nor Blackpool, where the beach swallows
Glasses, towels, mussels clinging to rocks
The Yorkshire rose, drawn upon the bridge
Bullet trains, leading distances
Almost unfathomable in this very spot
Harrogate, bath water
Spilling onto the street in natural sulphuric geysers
Burning
The Yorkshire Rose, fleeting in memory
In ghosts of the abbey nearby