A perception takes a turn,
partly an indication and the indicator
gives an inkling of a forecast
of spiritual squirm.
Between brain and heart hoveringly this seed subservience.
Looks upwards at zenith and reflects that
no trees grows to heaven.
Hankering for a compass and holding on.
Patience is the art of hoping,
and the feeling becomes impalpable.
A wandering of thousand miles
always begins with one step and ebb out
in a changing and motley ambivalence.
Many brooks small, makes a big river.
If only a crest became to a turning point.
A stage of time in black and white
suffocates a predestined fate,
but Rome was not built in one day
And a dimmer becomes clear.
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Comments about this poem (Sigh by Peter Berglind )
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