How many lose their way
in woods that stand in grace,
in everlasting silence,
like in a fog shrouded,

that can’t be pierced with eyes
and thickens as you stare,
so wanderers, unaware
of how to cross these parts,
their constant search for signs,
they fear they cannot bear.

Once felt led astray,
they pick up the pace
and turn words to prayer
with inner strength united.

A voice that casts its spells,
to brace, fight, and repel
apparitions and wraiths
that it had just invited,

to make a rightful claim
on what it cannot gain,
as it cannot be lost
by conquered trees and ghosts.

Then back to where it started,
to woods that stand in grace,
in everlasting silence,
like in a fog shrouded.

We practice serenity
with each day that we receive.
No search for amenity
just live off of what we believe.
No shortness of want or need,
look how easily we breathe.

That’s where the old snake stopped me
from attempting to grab the fruit.
There was endless crop to see
there was infinite loot.
We’re living in paradise lost.
We’re living in paradise lost,
and I don’t ever want to be found.

No much more to gain,
we shower within the rain.
Maybe I could stop this train
maybe you could stop the pain.
We have no short of grain
we have no hate or bane.
Rocky Mountains or flat plain,
delusional but still sane.

That’s where the old snake stopped me,
and told me that I need not pick.
The fruit was freely dropping,
raining down so strong and quick.
We’re living in paradise lost,
with nothing bringing us down.
We’re living in paradise lost,
and I don’t ever want to be found.

City lights flicker, casting shadows tall,  
Whispers of evening, in twilight’s fall.  
Streets hum softly, a nocturnal song,  
In the heart of darkness, where we all belong.

Moon ascends in silence, a guardian in the sky,  
Stars spill secrets, as constellations sigh.  
Echoes of footsteps, a dance on cobbled stone,  
Night embraces the wanderer, the dreamer, the alone.

Neon signs pulse, a heartbeat of the street,  
Mysteries unravel where darkness and light meet.  
Windows glimmer faintly, lives hidden behind,  
In the cloak of midnight, stories unwind.

Cool breeze carries whispers of distant seas,  
Rustling leaves murmur, swaying with the trees.  
A symphony of stillness, the night’s gentle hymn,  
In its silent chorus, we find solitude within.

Night is a canvas, painted in shades of deep,  
Where dreams take flight, and secrets keep.  
Beneath its vast expanse, a quiet allure,  
In the embrace of night, our spirits endure.

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::