There’s
marshy grass, to chant freely, a need to pause.
There’s
maple trees, daylight owls, to shatter walls.
Such
a feat, to clad a folly, three pleats further.
Pride
is hawking, a scream is burning, raging against a
furnace.
Some are set for war, designed for trials, resistant
to
woes. It’s a type of zeal, to rise through deaths, unborn
sorely.
It’s a type of breath, to ever gaze, in-for-out—a
heartbeat.
There’s a vista, filled with weeds, where a rose
grew.
Such wildness, a sightless wealth, a leopard’s rest.
Eagles
glaze for heights, a bit for lonely, torn by grace;
where
cameras flash, ants swarm, trampled underfoot.
To
see a ferret, flee a foe, leaping higher; it moves a mind,
to
capture pearls, a neighbor’s faith. It’s ever a tress, a
lady’s
mane, nature’s beauty. Wear it for silk, a moving
light,
to chant for winds; for there afar, a cheetah pants,
to
hunt for prey. It’s us for sight, to flit for sails, plucking
leaves;
for love is warm, a silent dove, edging closer.
