"windless" poems
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
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*How I wish to float upon your breast
Soft and placid as a glass lake, windless
Breathless
But to delve into valleys
Unexplored, keeper of buried treasures
I trek throughout, wandering
Aimless deliverance, unspoken promises
Intricacy of intimate embrace
I weave in my fingers, passion
Spill me, leave kisses like ghosts
Translucent memories
Moist with seduction
Delicious droplets of enticement
Proposing infatuation, falling from your lips
Illustrious little allures
Swim through me
Serpentine twisting contours
Wrap me in flesh, consumption
Stares, to reiterate a longing
Convey this truthfulness
Honeyed words of desire
Think not to deny yourself this moment
Make love to white whispers
Embedded in the mouth of temptation
Take no responsibility
Let movement be freely expressed
Body caressed
Comforting red embers
Of lustful flame
Spin tales of time and tryst
Inhale the sweeter aromas
Entwine with immaculacy
Reciprocate sensuality, a pair
Two
Two with a twist
And many other turns*
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
It was a restless night denuded of sleep
So since it was warm and windless
I hit the streets
Walking under ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss
My path inevitably led to where
Everything was at a complete loss
Crescent Moon Memorial Cemetery
For the dead
Where all lie below earthly care
Was where my feet had somehow led
Row upon row of forgotten names
In all of their endeavors
Have been eased of their earthly pains
And now as I trudged by at a quarter to three
A low chorus and chords of music
Through the mists came floating to me
It startled and intrigued
What now is this ?
So I had to go see for myself
And I silently crept to where came the origins of bliss
In a circle of bench seats and monument stones
The strangest thing I saw , that of the unborn
Ghosts and skeletons playing with bones and singing in moans
A see through piano , trombone , bass , saxophone and a silver cornet
And one wailing guitar completed the set
On the translucent petal bass drum
Was the name of the ethereal band
And to a catchy tune I began to hum
Crescent Moon Memorial Buried Blues Band
The epitaph on the vaporous drum stated
And I soon found myself a loyal fan
What seem like a lifetime they continued to play
Quaint rthyms and lyrics now made my day . . . and night !
As the sounds drifted across the river out onto the bay
But far off I heard the mornings cock's call
Then phiff . . . vanished all into the fog
Not a trace as if covered by an invisible pall
And then a ray caught the gleam in my eye
And I knew that when the time comes
Here's where I want to be placed after I die
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall.
Of mighty kings of Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away;
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote,
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built,
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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Caucasian cadaver in the windless woods.
Carelessly hanging from a tree.
Colorless face looking down.
Carrion yet to be seen.
Creation of an evil man.
Displaying his departed art.
Completed, his compelling plan.
Of helping death do its part.
Few colors, fewer sounds.
White skin contrasts the black dress.
Faded yellow floating all around.
Splatters of red fill the rest.
A frightful figure that overwhelms.
Above the confused and thorny trails.
All the shallow know themselves.
At the sight of this female.
Breathless before being dangled.
Dead before being displayed.
Beautiful body, cold and mangled.
Death magnificently portrayed.
Multiple stab wounds in your back.
Added to the smell of war.
Mind immersed in barren black.
Gnawed eyes to watch and adore.
Dripping, dim and dreadful.
The portrait he wanted to smear.
Your future as empty as your words.
Your hollowness shown clear.
You don't know what you're missing.
Elders still die, the young still grow.
The leaves below are hissing.
At the corpse of a girl I used to know.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams
It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered
The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.
The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression
The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
Through halls of cloud his spirit soared
Through countless skies of gold
In windless corridors of air
Through vistas vast and bold.
Across the checkered fields of green
Above those mountains high
My friend would wing his aeroplane
Into an endless sky.
The windswept beauty reaching out
The world so far below
This freedom to spread out his wings
Would make my friend’s heart glow.
His spirit soaring like a bird
Into a sky of rain
The sunlight setting in the West
In shades of sweet refrain.
Alone, aloft in peacefulness
Is where he means to be,
To fly as one with eagles
High above a distant sea.
To reach up through the heaven’s gate
To be at one with God
To spiral round like feather down
And touch down on the sod.
With a heavy heart and weary hands
He shut his motor down
Forever more to be with us
Imprisoned on the ground.
A sunbeam I see yonder there
At play amongst the shrouds
And I fancy seeing Leon’s ghost
Flying up into those clouds.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
11th June 2008
Dedicated to my flying mate, the late Leon Denize.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
melancholy blanketed the whites
scarred voices muffled by
a ****** mind.
an avalanche stuck in my soul
severer than a bee at a forked road
how confused!
red-cheeked petals and afternoon birds glare
in confusions at the footsteps :
unbalance, shaded, muted!
the green umbrella's warm, so scorchingly cold!
all embittered, by solemn beams of the soulless sun.
their eyes widen,
for they had never seen such lone,
for such lone, rare, is forbid to the sons of nature,
never belong to happy child's arms,
that dreams in a mother's charm.
grieving droughts in the air and grass,
no dews, why!,
yawned the madden, soporific rabbit
Ah, so wild.
the windless noontime cross, my quivers stopped, mild.
lashes waxed, blacken like a coal,
mind stuck in a haze, or maybe a threatening maze.
stiffness of the air injected to my nostrils
into my white tongue they will soak, like perfumes to a clothe.
Selene will gaze angrily at this and say,
why no, it shouldn't be in there!
the midnight orchids waver and frown.
soon the frothing dreams peter,
but the bolded letters in a white board stay,
my chair stays.
creaks of an abominable burden became a din.
The smudges of grey-white dust I smelt
hover gaily in the air of pompous breath.
spellbound by the stagnant languor,
mazy, in hallucinations of the heat and homesick.
I sought the fount of hypocrisy and vile,
my hiding nonchalances rosen
(towards a flock of friends)
and loathes to an abominable sun frozen
(I wished it to die!)
Tilted to the windows,
I saw nothing, but fatal secrets of a heart rosed
like window dust to a nose.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
As I put on the sandals made of red
I embark on a journey where the past I’ve shed
I follow the yellow brick road
It twists and turns, windless and winds
Around the bend and toward the skies
Over the seas and into a new land
With my family hand in hand
I follow the yellow brick road
And on this road I find a ball
That entertains me through it all
I share and play with those around
Through the air or on the ground
Kicking, hitting, bouncing, throwing it up and down
I follow the yellow brick road
As I walk I meet a fork
And don’t know which way to go
But which ever way I go
I know I’ll find
The place I want to end in space and time
So I take a left and keep my course
As I follow the yellow brick road
I encounter on my voyage there
People that can help me bear
The burden that I care
Of all the deaths I’ve seen
On the path that I have been
I follow the yellow brick road
I reach a high and reach and low
Nevertheless I know where I shall go
I hit some bumps and fall right down
But always get up and never frown
I follow the yellow brick road
As I see the road comes to an end
I look at myself as an old man
Searching this whole time
To find my place, to find my life
To do what’s right, to claim what’s mine
I’ve been on the road this whole time
On the road of my life
And on this road I have found
The person I am on this humble ground
And as I dig my grave so deep
I know I cannot go to sleep
All the unfinished things I still have to do
The questions, answers, and all things new
So I put on the sandals made of red
As a new road appears where the past I’ve shed
The sins I’ve gathered
I follow the yellow brick road
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
The mood seems desolate at dusk,
a time when emotions are on the rise;
The shining hours of day are gone,
and mystical images confront our eyes.
Not quite sure of what we see,
in the vastness of the indigo skies;
'Round about the glowing lamps of light,
keenly focused upon iridescent sights.
Are we witnessing life's mysteries unfold,
the way our elders' stories told ?
Yet darker still our evening grows,
shivering, shaking in the windless cold.
Sitting close on our front porch swing,
seeking wonders of imagining;
There they go--the ghosts of our youth,
which beckon still despite the sting.
We're not alone as visions float by,
and dawn reveals what the future may bring.
Frances McClelland
July 17, 2016
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”
~for Jean Fisher~
*this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility
all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness
asking,
why,
do you deserve it?
the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden
truths and trust
birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more
and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger*
this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem
now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.
A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.
A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
I came from the sunny valleys
And sought for the open sea,
For I thought in its gray expanses
My peace would come to me.
I came at last to the ocean
And found it wild and black,
And I cried to the windless valleys,
“Be kind and take me back!”
But the thirsty tide ran inland,
And the salt waves drank of me,
And I who was fresh as the rainfall
Am bitter as the sea.
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Give me the sea and I'll drink it
all of it
Give me the sky and I'll blot it out
cut it out
leave the gaping earth barren of its liquid dressing
and leave the sky naked of its blue face
there is no compare
that is
not to say you are not enough for me
not at all
it is to say you are more than I could have desired
more
than I could have dreamed
and I do not tire of you
not in my darkest moments
when I'm stretched thin
and there is no longer
a devil-may-care draped about my addled mind
when my patience snaps
when my jaw clamps
my eyes droop
my brain thumps against my skull
not even then
with the last vestiges of civility held in grasp
not even then can I think to lash out at you
not even when you poke
or ****
plod about my sensibilities
maim my sensitivities
not even then
not even when you roll your eyes
give me that long 'hmmmm - really...'
I don't give in to the nagging,
nigh satisfying itch to shake with rage
and curse everything that stems from the womb
I am cool as a cucumber
placid as a windless lake
I roll my shoulders
flutter my eyelashes
look you up and down
say,
'My... my... tired aren't you?'
Your shoulders slump
Your efforts to topple me abate
You nod your head
curl up on my lap
isn't it
funny
how comforted we become
when we are offered solace
in exchange for an argument
that neither of us
would win?
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 4:06 AM UTC
It struck me tonight
How impressive it is
The deftness of your tongue
Coaxing life
Out of shy, windless nights
I still remember
Sitting by your side
As your laughter floated westward
The bashful heavens made to blush
And you
Conducting an orchestra
Of sweet vivid flowers
Wet petals falling from your lips
Kissing me gently on the cheek
Painting cursive
On the sky's horizon
My words will never be so
Delicate
They are stiff; they are tired
They are made to roam abandoned alleys
And grow old in the open hands
Of a book
So speak to me
Drip your honeyed breath onto my chest
With shallow sighs
Wrap the fingers of your conversation
Around my hand
And don't let go
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
I watch with no eyes
and listen with no ears.
I am just the shadow
cast still within that of yours.
I whisper no words
and scream without a voice.
I am the quiet between each phrase,
the pause before and after every thought.
I reach with no arms
and stand on no legs.
I am the breeze you feel
on windless nights.
I feel with no heart
but love with no boundaries.
To most I am faceless,
nameless and bear no threat.
I am a sihouette in the distance
no one notices.
A ghost you know exists
but don’t believe.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
She was different than the rest, A Sunflower facing the moon.
Trying to grow taller than the rest, to have a voice in a windless field, to be what she is meant to be, when everyone is just the same.
Her roots were the strongest but she was the weakest
How can you blame her when she is just a sunflower facing the moon.
A wild wind took her off, now she is lonley like never before.
All she wanted was to be heard but she was just a sunflower facing the moon.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 1:00 AM UTC
Strange whimsical winds,
Drifting across the city bylanes; as if some poet's nomadic dreams.
Whether it's gloomy nights or bright mornings,
Winds won't stop; as it can't differentiate these things.
Storming through the strange alleys,
There's none so place which stays windless.
Whether roaring blizzard or soothing breeze,
It pierce people's soul with discriminating ease.
In half agony and half hope,
I looked back and forth,
Could not get a glimpse of you in this unseen natural wrath.
Uncertain of my fate; I must depart,
To find you in my lonely heart.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:33 AM UTC
1
(Windless Summer)
Between the glass panes of the sea are pressed
Patterns of fronds, and the bronze tracks of fishes.
2
(Winter)
Foam-ropes lasso the seal-black shiny rocks,
Noosing, slipping and noosing again for ever.
3
(Windy Summer)
Over-sea going, under returning, meet
And make a wheel, a shell, to hold the sun.
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The parched earth echoed the wails for the dead
as flames devoured the crowd of corpses
mouth agape with unquenched thirst.
The sky had mercilessly looked away
having spit fire on them down below
sparing not one waterhole on its way
and the mother if only she could
use her tears for the baby to drink
but her eyes had turned dry as the earth.
Yet dark as the depth of love
the King's pond mirrored the princess' face
and would still beam the moon in her eyes
strangely hiding from the wrath of the drought.
One night sleeping on her ivory bed
her silken skin cooled with rosewater
the princess heard a voice:
*When the fury of God
blinds him to the pains of men
an angel rises to break his heart
stakes her life to rend heaven apart
so his tears on earth fall as rain.*
The windless night was deadly quiet
watched by moon in awe wide eyed
the trees sparkled in firefly's light
when the princess stood by the pond's side.
For awhile her eyes roamed around
resting on the marble's gleam
the sleeping grass her sweet playground
a home smelling all earthly dream.
She felt like swimming through the air
love glowing warm in her peaceful eyes
till she reached the end of stairs
that bore her frame with deep sighs.
The heaven broke down with thunderous rain
the seeds sprouted filled field with green
upon that land wasn't a drought again
never before had such harvest been seen.
In the depth of night if you hear a cry
from the clouds pearly by dawn's embrace
know God's tears will fall from the sky
as dewdrops mourning the rain princess.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
out of a shallow dip
catch-water field
of landscape polished rock
a shock of pregnant junipers
olive-green fires arise
and my eyes bedazzle
gossamer
floating specks
of bees
new hatched
butterflies
golden jump
and spiral
as if tethered
to child's witching wand
random ride
the windless air
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
(To Eleonora Duse)
We are anhungered after solitude,
Deep stillness pure of any speech or sound,
Soft quiet hovering over pools profound,
The silences that on the desert brood,
Above a windless hush of empty seas,
The broad unfurling banners of the dawn,
A faery forest where there sleeps a Faun;
Our souls are fain of solitudes like these.
O woman who divined our weariness,
And set the crown of silence on your art,
From what undreamed-of depth within your heart
Have you sent forth the hush that makes us free
To hear an instant, high above earth’s stress,
The silent music of infinity?
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*The odor of blood drops in drapes,
figures half-lit form false shapes;
the bed on which I lie and the windows
welcome what the delicate line knows:
the open imagination's well-kept trade
that many shrug off
with a stilted stare or cough,
throwing discredit on what honest hands have made.
All that dreamlike inspiration
becomes a beautiful conflagration:
the smell of emblematic men and women slain,
and flickering lights from where thought's shadows came,
issue out of the creative heart's desire
that's uncontrollable,
requiring an artistic toll,
like the worn fingers of the bard that plays the lyre.
But that's what poetry's about,
a deep and draining silent shout;
the hand is left cramped and consumed,
the heart's violet blossoms begin to bloom:
sedative perfumes slide over your wearied frame –
half-memories abate,
the odorous dead dissipate –
you're deserted, yet the halcyon heart flares aflame.
Symbols come and symbols go:
the disfigured trees obscured by snow,
or simply standing against the wind
or windless heat; a cherished friend,
loved ones who’ve passed and the Lost Lyricist;
the Muse that eludes
the damp room in which it broods;
an image of stream near a stony tower’s twist.
Find here, dear reader and friend,
a testimony sung over again.
I write this text to release me from
broken thoughts and anger’s sum:
all that childhood and adolescence approved.
The unvoiced thoughts
of a boy caught by cast lots
inked to find something beyond evanescent truths.*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
#
*Sparkles and stars,
there is a brilliance in the sky
and a darkness, all around it
Child of wonder
child of Light
Oh my Lord, child
Please hold on tight
The worst of monsters
come out at night
A wingless child
Cannot take flight
Wonder, young child
Let the Light in you
emit from your wild
Chasing all you have known
that causes such fright
A grass covered field
A rolling, green hill
On your back, you look up
To a sky, brilliant blue
Until the blue I see
becomes the vastest of oceans
now, below me
On a windless, cloudless day
Wonder, young child
And watch all the monsters
float away*
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Jun 11, 2024
Jun 11, 2024 at 1:30 PM UTC