A scent in the air reveals the earth at it's best.
Groaning from within the silken-smooth womb,
Grasping for breath lest the growing turns tomb.
Then silently the most beautiful winged creature greets,
The swiftly sailing warm-scented Wind.
Ornately colored, unfurled become her intricate wings,
Swooping magnificently upon the meadow with a
Speed and Dash without compare.
Flitting from blossom white, then pink, then purple last,
Savor sweet nectar, settle in the sun and bask.
Oh, how the others do look upon her grace,
A pale, moon-like presence, delicate oval orbs for a face.
A tenderness beneath the depths of layered cocoons,
A Beauty which outshines the pearl-shelled moon.
Who would know?
Who would see?
Who would rejoice?
(Not who, but rather who would not?)
From spirited flight,
Out of hardened shells with such might,
That the great weight of loss and the sanctity of love,
Forge a brilliant purple gem, so clear and so dear.
She's a prism of light,
Reflecting our sight.
Refracting our soul,
Filling our hole.
The Wind always knows.
The Wind always sees.
The Wind always rejoices.
So onward she flies dazzling the moors and meadows,
And the west Wind bends north carrying the sound
Of flapping wings
My dilemma: in the pursuit of success and achievement, I have neglected the core of humanity, of our very existence. There is no maze nor cheese at the end. There is only the satisfaction of having participated and grown in depth and character. I can only offer up this interface for now. There are endless possibilites; however, there are risks as well as adventure, danger as well as thrill, life as well as death...the journey is arduous, but challenging. Who the hell said life was easy.
Without pain and suffering we would not know we existed. Without extending our cranials beyound the safety of our shells, we would not endure pain or suffering.
I say suffer and live, rather than cower and die. I say live and love, rather than wear that glove. I say rejoice and howl, and relish the pain of love deep within your bowel, and even if it were to burn, so searing that you scorn, ah, you have lived and fought, you have sucked out the marrow and got, what life is all about.
My depth of love is like the chalis of Camelot. There are those who know not what it could be , there are more who know not that it could be. When you cut through the Fog, you'll see the image only blurs; take what you have for what it is: a paradigm shift without a clutch. We grind the gears and get nowhere. Yet it is not the destination....
