The world turns on a Shepard’s staff.
He, of whom the Shepard is, is a guide through the treachery and trickiness of the thick weeds.
The foothills have been passed and the plains of this earth is now the marked destination to rest. We eat there. Beware
The sheep have been calm this journey, and it’s lax for the collie, our animal ally.
He is prepared at a beckoning and that is all that is required for herds safety. He comes and goes throughout the brush to scout and prepare reconnaissance. Again, a ally.
The sun moves slowly and eventually rests past the horizon. Twilight and on a clear night, spreckels of stardust show their face over the herd and friendlies. The wolves do not bother the fire tonight.
We rest with a relative ease.
We wake and begin the day.
Pedestal talk from sheep
I was sitting in my white room
Sitting on top of the world
Where there are no cares to implore
Never worried about if there was more
Touching monsters that are made to laugh
Tasting colors , smelling every sound
Bite the dog of realities hound
All this in a way , without any
Hell has come to claim it's fair game
In the deserted cemeteries of the heart
This poem is about an is an asylum where severe mentally ill patients were kept sedated 24/7 in white rooms with padded walls and no windows . They were kept that way 20 , 30 , 40 , years or more until they died . Their bodies often went unclaimed by family and their bodies were buried on the grounds cemetery . Only a ten inch iron cross with a number on it to mark their grave . Often I wondered about the souls of these mentally deserted people and where would they go after the deserted cemeteries of the heart .
— The End —