The dry leaves a whisper
In the cool night air .
The future lurking
Face to face with the moon .
He drank in her sigh.
Inhaled .
This night must last till
there is no tomorrow.
No thorns .
No tears.
Feeling a pleasant stir
Darkness faded and
slipped into perspective.
Ocean dancers dream
The music of the sands .
The young optimistic
The old find acceptance
In dreams that have
Gathered dust .
Spiritually bloodied and beaten
The morning was chaos
In a minor key .
In the waiting air of
The storms eye .
The old growth forest
waded into the shallows
As the wind moaned
like a salty cello .
The flag of her life
was set at half mast .
Following a path
Of fire ,
Of ice .
Listening to the song
of the angels.
Carried on the ancient
winds of sorrow.
She knew all the secret places
between right and wrong .
The angels song was
one of tears
That lightly pushed the waves
Over the thorns .
He ran back from the morning
Fighting the odds of the elements.
She was indegenous as the
roots upheaved from a withered oak .
A wave of desolate fury
Inside a sea of
Wrongfulness
Or
Righteousness.
The journey is not over .
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
The dry leaves a whisper
In the cool night air .
The future lurking
Face to face with the moon .
He drank in her sigh.
Inhaled .
This night must last till
there is no tomorrow.
No thorns .
No tears.
Feeling a pleasant stir
Darkness faded and
slipped into perspective.
Ocean dancers dream
The music of the sands .
The young optimistic
The old find acceptance
In dreams that have
Gathered dust .
Spiritually bloodied and beaten
The morning was chaos
In a minor key .
In the waiting air of
The storms eye .
The old growth forest
waded into the shallows
As the wind moaned
like a salty cello .
The flag of her life
was set at half mast .
Following a path
Of fire ,
Of ice .
Listening to the song
of the angels.
Carried on the ancient
winds of sorrow.
She knew all the secret places
between right and wrong .
The angels song was
one of tears
That lightly pushed the waves
Over the thorns .
He ran back from the morning
Fighting the odds of the elements.
She was indegenous as the
roots upheaved from a withered oak .
A wave of desolate fury
Inside a sea of
Wrongfulness
Or
Righteousness.
The journey is not over .
