life is fruit in the sun, gardens, art, fortune and
fame; the theft of freedom, we mustn’t die, we learn to exhale; the frozen
lakes, atop warm teepees, souls searching for rescue. the hymn of pearls,
flooding soundwaves, some music is made of scarlet. Soft winter chills, breath
becoming winds, many surviving rites of passage. the rustle and swish, the whizz of time, the
swoosh and castle; rattling thoughts, like pans sorted, like private noises;
curtains covering life, veils closing on sacredity, most vows coming from times
passed.
the small spider, the steep response, lithic vows; exhausted
souls, wrestling elements, searching out the wisdom in the routine, the chaos in
the silence, the gamble with excellence.
dice becomes prophetic, tears mix with dirt, spirits create soul-slides.
ghosts and murky clarity, reasons to sit in stillness, spirits agitated by
genuine discomfort. nearby channels, forgotten compassion, searching for
rightful ownership. days breeding, the leaping stallions, the courageous mare; many
nights in sands, jesting in the mornings, lots of sad banter.
