Scattered birch bones about the way…
Classics bellow below.
Sometimes I talk to the angels.
They appear as dust on the rays of the sun.
‘No, no, sweetheart your pilgrimage has just begun.’
And, though, my footing grabs at my destiny…
Strangely, strange, it is the wilderness that sets my spirit free.
A dare, one would say.
As the winged mystique call those that wander to the way…
And, though the hike runs on empty.
The serenity symphony tempts and provokes me.
The eyes of forest know…
I do not see all there is…
all there is to know.
Servitude is not the calling.
would be to no avail.
The pernicious pig,
the muddied mare,
the calamitous cow.
Free of strings.
And, monetary weights.
Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.
Only sullied by contentment.
There are eccentricities about time that many… will never get.
Similar to chasing the family pet.
There is a mortal need to have it all around.
Thou, it is injured and too tightly wound.
It may surface that there are brisk critics regaled for being too passionately black.
And, those willing to make the ‘devil’s pact.’
As followed, before, the ache arrived, minutes filled the air.
As original as, the snowflakes in which we place our grateful cares.
Mind over the matters of time.
The pain of neutral.
No joy from fast forward or rewind.
For myself, revelations, on a dusky December day,
That, I too, conceded,
from the comfort of living in the in between.
There had been a frozen dust to the air.
It covered my tracks…
Or, considerate me…
I found myself not lost…for I never looked back.
It will be clear.
Those trolls listening both far and near.
Indefinitely indebted but still, I cannot go.
Chivalry in a voice.
These demons up on mountains made by moles…
‘Are not your choice.’
Though, the air I breath is not free.
If I walk away now,
I can own my own feet.
Villains and angels…abound.
Holes in the wall.
Furnace on stall.
There is not enough room on the ark for us all.
I will not choose to take what I need and leave the rest.
Cannot adhere to the father knows best.