We are these cells, this soul, this being.
We are the choices of our own awakening.
We are light that pours through the generations.
Innocent little children dancing to the rain song,
For a season of green to atone for our wrongs.
We are a hunter caught in his own snares.
We are a tidal wave in a sea of broken dreams.
We are flickering whimsy, a breath’s laughter.
The sacrificial dove, the hooting owl, the forlorn falcon
O, those surreptitious angels in their sweet anger!
Muttering of dreams lost, deep in our own silences.
We are haunts cries in the aftermaths of battle.
We are fine theatre made out of lost relics.
We are a spider’s webs, a tender weave of time.
Over here the wind blows, over there a story told!
We are dry leaves in this intricate whispering.
Augmenting to a morning of silent conversations.
We are this pen conversing to these sentences.
Lighting the threshold to that wordless portent
If we turn, what do we see, a river or a shiver?
Or had we bitten more dreams than we could chew,