My overwhelming Solemnity
is represented-
by brown fields
in Spring-time withering.
Nostalgia riddles me
with, and throughout,
my Life.
It is a Sweet candy;
Sour- like the taste of my gums,
as I reflect on my Experience
as a Living, Breathing,
flesh-Encumbered Soul.
"These are the pale, empty vessels of our spirit,"
says One, about our bodies.
"'Tis the final embrace from the Mother to Son,"
says One, in regards to Death.
"This is the end of a Turn,
of the Wheel just Begun,"
says one,
pondering the endless Circles
of Our existence.
But find,
in one Moment,
peace.
But see,
in one Moment,
the sun that revels on Our faces;
that dances like flames, upon Our eyes.
Don't weep because the moon crests;
because the tides rise;
because the the vivid flowers of Our mind have begun their soft decay.
Instead,
remember that Our dying bodies exist;
that peace can be found;
that the moon is merely a Shadow of the sun's brilliance;
that We,
as all Hope foretells,
as the Flowers of one age,
tread paths for the dying New;
for unborn eyes;
for the Shadows of Our acceptance.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
My overwhelming Solemnity
is represented-
by brown fields
in Spring-time withering.
Nostalgia riddles me
with, and throughout,
my Life.
It is a Sweet candy;
Sour- like the taste of my gums,
as I reflect on my Experience
as a Living, Breathing,
flesh-Encumbered Soul.
"These are the pale, empty vessels of our spirit,"
says One, about our bodies.
"'Tis the final embrace from the Mother to Son,"
says One, in regards to Death.
"This is the end of a Turn,
of the Wheel just Begun,"
says one,
pondering the endless Circles
of Our existence.
But find,
in one Moment,
peace.
But see,
in one Moment,
the sun that revels on Our faces;
that dances like flames, upon Our eyes.
Don't weep because the moon crests;
because the tides rise;
because the the vivid flowers of Our mind have begun their soft decay.
Instead,
remember that Our dying bodies exist;
that peace can be found;
that the moon is merely a Shadow of the sun's brilliance;
that We,
as all Hope foretells,
as the Flowers of one age,
tread paths for the dying New;
for unborn eyes;
for the Shadows of Our acceptance.
This is a rewrite of my poem, "A Little Wisdom Too Late."
I hope you enjoy, and your comments are greatly appreciated!
Request permission to use this poem