When you come to peace,
Your body is lifted of all sin.
Of all burden.
Of every emotion except happiness.

You have come far young one,
Keep striding to be great.
Your wings are there for you.
To help you fly.

Guiding your flight.

I wonder while I'm sitting here,
typing these words down, what
it'd be like to live, out, in the fresh
free air, walking, always walking,
the world my second home.

I wonder, as I sit here, typing
these words down, would it
be like my wanderings, lost in
imaginations dreams, a journey
of beauty, of hope, of spirituality,
of self discovery, of enlightenment...

I have been told that the grass is
never greener, here, or in furthest
Asia, that we are all one, a human
family, extended into the billions,
all having unique quirks and traits
between us, but all being more or
less the same, for all that. That we
all are truly, one. And I think that
that is true.

I want to know what it is like,
to feel what they feel, to see
what they see, to walk among
them, to drown in the torrents
of noise and smell and color,
to bathe in a sea of silence, alone
but for myself, wandering
awestruck, and the whispering of
the leaves in a gentle breeze..

I want to know..I have to.
I need to see, to feel, to hear,
to love..

I gotta go. I gotta go.
that's all.

A perfect day, standing on the train platform to go home,
the late evening sun golden as a dragon's treasure,
when an earth-ending roar shifts eyes to the sky and
there to humble all,
the Concorde takes off from Heathrow,
almost straight up, its edges haloed by the light.
Beauty on wings.
In a few months this magnificent,
never to be bested machine of optimism,
will fly no more.

from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose

his wings were blackened
by the fire's torch
the feathers bore the marks
of an inferno's scorch

forever he'd wear
the burn's scarring
as a reminder
of his marring

from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose

on spread wings
in the heavens
he again soars
ascending above
the flame's
raging roars

his being flying free
a mythical flight
rising to cast off
the searing's blight

from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose

I want to be in a world, where
Even beggars have their beds, and
All the things in the world are sweet,
And fair.