The dry leaves a whisper
in the cool night air .
The future lurking
face to face with the moon .
He drank in her sigh .
Inhaled .
This night must last till
there is no tomorrow.
No thorns .
No tears .
Feeling a pleasant stir
darkness faded and
slipped into perspective.
Ocean dancers dream
the music of the sands .
The young optimistic
the old find acceptance,
In dreams that have
gathered dust .
Spritually bloodied and beaten .
The morning was chaos
in a minor key .
In the waiting air of
the storms eye .
The old growth forest
waded into the shallows .
As the wind moaned
like a salty cello .
The flag of her life
was set at half mast .
Following a path
of fire .
Of ice .
Listening to to the song
of the angels.
Carried on ancient
winds of sorrow ,
she knew all the secret places
between right and wrong .
The angels song was
one of tears .
That lightly pushed the waves
over the thorns .
As he ran back
from the morning.
Fighting the odds of the elements
she was as indegenous as the
roots upheaved from a withered oak .
A wave of desolate fury
inside a sea of wrongfulness
or rightousness .
This journey is not over .
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Comments6
A descriptive write I really enjoyed. Nice to hear from you!
the journey
is never over.
very nice piece, well done! ww
Nice work Bill.
Super right WL, glad to hear from you again.
Very mystical..... I love the acceptance and that the journey is not over........
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