Everything’s burning as an essence of flame,
Surrounding the material worth.
Realized, dreams , each night the same.
A pleasantry, oh so put forth.
As light enters the realm,
The book on the shelf,
Reads its own self,
And dust piles in girth.
Allow me the distant memory,
Lingering with stained senses.
As eternal as family,
Without the same pretenses.
As I listen to songs of a thousand birds,
Singing in words, only spring can hear.