How  slow  my  awakening  is
in  the  small  sleepless  hours,
as  I  look  into  a  cloudless  night
and  find  no  stars  a-shining.

My  hand  is  an  upturned  palm  
Gazing  at  a  relentless  sky,
A  statue  of  frozen  remembrance
Of  a  gift  that  has  long  gone  by.

I  love  the  sun  upon  the  streaks
That  are  the  ideal  portrait  
Of  my  dream.

I  love  to  sing  the  sadness  of  a  flute
When  the  mist  is  in  me          
And  I’m  lost  within  myself.
                                                  
The  same  kind  of  coldness
Brings  the  same  familiar  feeling.
It  envelopes  my  body
And  smarts  out  the  memory.

A soft kind of sadness
Edging like incessant  rain
To a soft kind of
Happiness and pain.

Who is that golden man in his golden cage?
Recognizing himself in the mirror of innocence,
Staring at his image until he is blind
And only sees the profile
Of his shadow on the wall.

He is so sweet,
He is so nice,
His heart is warm
And full of vice.

A quick little rain to fall,
A quick little steady rush
Filters into my consciousness
And bless me with summer’s bliss.

Upon a chance I have a dream
And when I sleep
I dream that I can keep
You close and then
I wake and know
That what I hold in sleep
I’ve got to let it go.

The   sea  is  forever,
as  even  now,
never  the  same.
It  stirs  and  breaks,
mends  and  unites.

From  shore  to  shore
the  same,
yet,
from  wave  to  wave
so  different.

Perhaps  it  knows
the  Why's  of  life.
Shall  I  dare  ask?
And  what  shall  I  hear?

The  fierceful  cries
of  a  thousand
seagulls  in  mine  ear!

Into  crevices  where  waters  trickle
I  let  my  soul  divide
into  brilliant  silver  threads
Along the mountainside…

And  down  below,  it  drops
Into  a  pool  so  far  beyond
Where  I  can  sit  and  seek,
Myself there-in to find.