Still More...
Can you tell that I'm bored?
The Love
A person dancing, twisting his head around to see the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the soul. Wild hair flying around a laughing face, loving space. Quick dark eyes searching the rain for a sign of its stopping, finding none and at peace with the dampness of the air. The clouds are throwing their arms around the sun and now they melt away, leaving a clear blue sky for the person to gaze into, wondering what has come over the land, that eerily beautiful music is now wandering about free. Free and unfettered by the chains of lost time, by the words of a madman, throwing his head into the wind to smell salt air from the sea while still dreaming of the desert. The desert is the homeland of the true love and fear that cling to a soul like the damp night of dew rising above misty tarns, turning fens into valleys, and mountains into riverbeds of flowing joy. He understands that the time has come to scream his joy into the atmosphere, telling his God of what he has learned of the world. Limbs flailing, hair flying in tangled ecstacy about the sweat- and tear-stained face of the refugee.
The love has found him.
He will never go hungry again.
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Night
Night, like a dark cat stalking the day, drifts away, followed by her prey. The sun seeps its warming hands into the darkened cracks of the night-worn hours. Grandfather sleeps away the early morning chill, awaking only to the sound of the ocean outside his window, the laughing children running about to the music and rhythm of the young. The time is now, for him to sail into the sunset, content with life, and catching a glimpse of glowing tunnels before returning to the loving hands of his Father.
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Fog Dance
The fog lays down in the morning on it's bed of water, resting it's weary head from it's journey. As it sleeps, it disappears, not to be seen again until the next morning. The fog is a night owl, and is shy of the sunlight. It melts into the water, dissipating into it's restful quiet until it rises again at night. In the cool of the evening, it plays upon the face of the river and it's banks. During the night, it performs it's slow dance once again, drifting in and out of it's own consciousness, wrapping and unwrapping itself in it's quiet shroud, furling and unfurling it's banners over it's grand kingdom. Once again, the day brings it's performance and nightly reign to an end, and it rests it's weary head on it's bed of water, weary from the dance. The fog is a night owl, and is shy of the sunlight.
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And thus ends the olden poetry...
The Love
A person dancing, twisting his head around to see the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the soul. Wild hair flying around a laughing face, loving space. Quick dark eyes searching the rain for a sign of its stopping, finding none and at peace with the dampness of the air. The clouds are throwing their arms around the sun and now they melt away, leaving a clear blue sky for the person to gaze into, wondering what has come over the land, that eerily beautiful music is now wandering about free. Free and unfettered by the chains of lost time, by the words of a madman, throwing his head into the wind to smell salt air from the sea while still dreaming of the desert. The desert is the homeland of the true love and fear that cling to a soul like the damp night of dew rising above misty tarns, turning fens into valleys, and mountains into riverbeds of flowing joy. He understands that the time has come to scream his joy into the atmosphere, telling his God of what he has learned of the world. Limbs flailing, hair flying in tangled ecstacy about the sweat- and tear-stained face of the refugee.
The love has found him.
He will never go hungry again.
____________________________________________________________________________
Night
Night, like a dark cat stalking the day, drifts away, followed by her prey. The sun seeps its warming hands into the darkened cracks of the night-worn hours. Grandfather sleeps away the early morning chill, awaking only to the sound of the ocean outside his window, the laughing children running about to the music and rhythm of the young. The time is now, for him to sail into the sunset, content with life, and catching a glimpse of glowing tunnels before returning to the loving hands of his Father.
___________________________________________________________________________
Fog Dance
The fog lays down in the morning on it's bed of water, resting it's weary head from it's journey. As it sleeps, it disappears, not to be seen again until the next morning. The fog is a night owl, and is shy of the sunlight. It melts into the water, dissipating into it's restful quiet until it rises again at night. In the cool of the evening, it plays upon the face of the river and it's banks. During the night, it performs it's slow dance once again, drifting in and out of it's own consciousness, wrapping and unwrapping itself in it's quiet shroud, furling and unfurling it's banners over it's grand kingdom. Once again, the day brings it's performance and nightly reign to an end, and it rests it's weary head on it's bed of water, weary from the dance. The fog is a night owl, and is shy of the sunlight.
_____________________________________________________________________________
And thus ends the olden poetry...