The Brighter Side

The past dawns have awaken in me, the smell of pollen sweet, fill my air, oh how dainty the leaves flow, in there airy splendor above the ground of desolation. The wind brings soft expressions from yesterday again to my ears, as a way to calm me from sulkin night, leaving the resonance of a happier time adrift in the mind, longing for a place to reside again. The cancer that fills everything now I forget, slide it away from my perception, as I am comfortably numb, hoping that the water flows once more slowly, so that it can take me back. I know though of the disdain the moon has for the sun, the moon sending the tides to the beach, usurping its foundation grain by grain, until there remains only ocean. The sun in turn melts away the land, before the moon has her chance, only the stars will be able to settle there issues, and that time is long overdue. Does one really speak to you, if so it is not to you only, for waste of words for a few is. A time long ago, with its peace, the stillness of the air while the water run slowly through time, a constant the presence of stillness was, it now being given away to the crow that flies in midheaven, searching for a place to land due to all the cement that has become the ground of earth. I was told in the dream that all knowledge would break my mind, but then observed how the owl flies through the tree's and knew, knew that there is no limit to wisdom, even though not all is wise. My path leads me, I do not lead my path, for what can I really say tomorrow will be, or bring or take away from life? Nothing. I succumb to the marvels of the butterfly, the bee, and wasp, for there activities defy taught ones, and there work brings shame upon not a few. There is still the warm sun to bask in, and nature to observe, is that not enough? It is for I. The days of youth being a crease of memory, but one that is fully active, for I allow it to be, only to continually be reminded of what once was. I cannot write of the beauty of the seasons any longer, for they are no longer beautiful, for mans hand is fully obvious, and pretendings of the past is not a pretty thing, sacrificing truth for a beautiful illustion is not beautiful nor fulfilling. It leaves the soul emptier than the beginning. All we be fine, the change will come again, bringing the birds to splendor with radiance of will, seeing the blue in the sky once more, instead of there paint that they paint for ill purpose. All is not wasted on the brandishings of the pure souls, even though there cruel masters think this is so. The eagle, with its foresight, its strength, and agility, once more will take flight into the sky of realism, once more see into the clouds for what is really there, and then taking into its talons all deception and vile thing, crushing it and dropping it into the ocean.