Outside my window the spirits of Africa play.
The night lit tree sways longingly in the friendly breeze.
Ruffled lions cascade smiling through the summer leaves,
while the mother dragon sits peering, curiously benevolent.
Her golden green scales reflecting the now familiar yellow orange streetlight.
Through wood framed glass and painted bars,
Her dark eyes, huge, wise and kind,
glisten with the sparks of infinite ages yet to be.

First the boredom,
then the panic,
some aggression,
it’s just my manic.

Tumbling shattered shards of emotional remains,
fumbling in the dark now they’ve slipped their human chains.
Stumbling on a spark that will not ignite,
That will not feel love...nor delight.

Emotion from the void that swirled outside,
now deep inside, focused wide.
The light that shines is seen in halo,
withered sunsets, pale and fallow.

But does it matter that substance lacks texture,
or that far from nowhere is equal measure?

The beast of burden, gentle and tame,
inside rages a dying flame.
Moved to stop; Drop to drop.

The overflowing moment an empty cup.
What once was down was also up.

Broken doors you should not enter,
people lost through invisible mentors.

Through the window, to the soul,
the brave the strong; All along.
The feeble minded and mindful hint,
that words produce a hazy tint.

Neither sit nor slumber upon the heath,
for time is not the only thief.