Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Thinking . . .

The moon graces
      the ripples of the water                            
with new white lace,
              crisp yet dynamic,
brilliant, and reflective
                                     of the depths of creation . . .
a song floats up                                       
            from the bottom of that
well - - -
    to quench the thirst
                               of my raw cells . . .
I drink deeply of
          cool spring waters              . . .                   
my face feels happy
        while doors
help open
and I 
        can find a way to fly
to the empty house 
            on the hill . . .                
                   shadows filter
through the trees                                          
         like moths fluttering
against the darkness . . .
                               I am the star walker and
                                                              I touch these glints of light
             as if they were stepping stones
guiding me to the places where
and love
           wash the souls of the damned
and the song of eternity
                                                             through the throbbing heart
                     of that which is;
             and that which was
                                                        gleams like a frozen dream 
       in the empty house
              on the hill .. . .
where memories, like dusty furniture,
                              populate the stillness
   and the stars glisten
                             with laughing eyes 
through un-curtained windows . .. .        

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