Treasure Island

Ace Of Black Hearts

(04/17/1984 / Homa Lousiana)

The Nature Of An Unnatural Existance


A key to unlock this dreamy land.
A key to its command.
As a spell with an aura of icy blue.
Water remnants remain yet as the morning dew.
The thoughts flow lavishly right through.
No secret place, nothing so hidden in that which is natural.
Even as spring has risen in excitement to meet this overhanging sun.
Oblivious to the very essence, and scents that surround.
Following and flailing all about.
Look at me hails the trumpet of sound.
A mocking of those who don't grasp the concept.
How could one not notice the cautiously approaching deer with its quick, yet tame feet.
But if you listen even closer you would notice she wasa mother, with a second feint heart beat.
And the struggle occurs within just as in this forest, where every tree is grasping for the right to meet the light though all the oddly shaped leaves.
Not to be taken for granted, or a given.
A equilibrium of all things large and small.
Perfecting a dance of both happiness and sorrow.
As it changes so do we.
Nothing is offering or granting immortality.
Just a mere chance, and we should not rebuke it so easily.
A wise man is one who listens before he speaks or eats.
Understanding is as just as important now as it has ever been.
Even wittiness will not protect us.
Clever creatures wish for foolish vices.
There is a heavy burden to pay, for it is neither suppose be easy or luxury that allows us all to live.
Just a chance, one that should not go wasted on frivolous ambitions, lazy everlasting lust.
A crutch used to continuously prop up.
Trying to a way of life, when that is not how it is given.
Leave as it was, as it may, as it might.
Trifle not too much in delight.
For when in bliss we becomes so ignorant, with no re-approach to what we do.
And the consequences far beyond just us, we are just the pebble that starts the avalanche, yet anything in its way will still suffer just as we do from the event.
A correction is made, to create order in chaos.
Sometimes like ripples they keep coming.
But enough waves made, they will be no water in this foreboding lake.
An empty pond of the past leaves no future.

Submitted: Monday, April 22, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013

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