Adorned in elder forest green, a multitude of shades unseen
The child respondent in his quest rests below the suns rays beaming,
Spotlighting the show, feeding ardent glorification of
Fairy tale moralities, his father the King of tones awaits the crumble
Of celestial thrones, awaiting an ethereal crowning, a procession to take him home.
Conversing forms of yesterdays world curl beside the fireplace as spirits heckle each other onwards, upwards to finish the race first and never last.
To look to the future, never to languish in the past, this is what we’re told, yet how are we to look when we’re bent double, broken, and old.
A life time of doing as we’re told, where has it gotten us. Where will it lead if not to feeding the consolations of our heart ache bleeding?
Wounded, grounded, floundering around awaiting the sound, the ring of the trumpet call. Awaiting angels to burst from heaven, from a cloud of shimmering stardust, thrusting forth in the glory of motion an ocean of perception, revealing doorways, revelling in the current, flowing ever onwards into the depths.
Turning in the cycle, slumbering rhythms choose their moment as they pass in rainbow paths our way, blessing the new day by the death of the last in promise that this day will die, In promise that no day is set to have the last laugh in the sky.
As always in the moment, the seconds through the hours are ours to laugh away in blanket contentment, don’t resent the safety presented forth to your form,
Who could resist the fire when all they wish is to be warm?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful poem. The best words need no notes, for they themselves are the notes. I love it.