The silent Hermit
sings constantly
In the ear of God

I meant to pen a happy poem
But somehow, ended up with this same old song
Heart in shreds
Dry tears shed
Overran with a fresh fload as a awake
Been too broken to, again, break
But, that's just a thought, I still break anyways.

Does the sun still smile?
This gloom has lasted too long a time
Does the stars still twinkle?
No equation is, again, simple
Do we still know beauty?
Everything is gone dark and ugly
We must all be a broken people

Weeping last only for the night
Morning is going to bring a new reason to smile
Though the night may seem to have lasted too long
Surely there is always a new song
We could either wait or
Create our own options, which most often wrong.

I am broken
You are broken
We all are broken
But if we treat the threads as a whole dress
Not as single individual threads
Then we are on the way to redress
No more broken me
Nor broken you
Just a healed and mended people.

As a kid i thought i was so bright
that my thoughts and eyes held candle to moonless nights
Big dreams slowing my memory like an over loaded android phone
Back then, dreaming was my sin, my only felony
But years and age walked me into reality
Then i realized, there is nothing wrong with dreaming
The only wrong therein is not waking up to live it.......

this is a rant
on who the painter is who paints a white canvas.
who makes it blank, all the same?
Who paints with one color, the confused?
My painter, the one who created this canvas
this universe this creation
paints with many shades of
variance. He paints not
one nation, not one race, not one star, not one season,
he paints
many faces,
many days all different
many nights some dark
some radiant.
He painted  us the colors
of all of heaven. Gave us the many shades of gray.
He painted a sunrise yellow of goldest glow,
a night to see the day with a new perspective.
He painted choices right
and painted us the freedom to choose.
Trees of many green with barks light and dark
some are white. All are right.
Remember who painted this.
He painted a sky
not always blue.

We toil and toil tilling
With our sweat ******* the soil
Yet merrily singing our song
From the ****’ s crow till the sun
goes home.

The harvest is non- the - less
Still in music and songs
Trekking like to the end- of - the -
world
Load - laden till our necks go sore.

With stock in ban to feed the
whole clan
By moonlight we woo to win more
hands
Till mandiang comes back a - round
Bringing us to the start of the
round