existence is paradox.
Is it this sparrow that sings to the sun, astray
from its silent void tangled in stars,
or does it sing to that eerie jewel etched in day’s
discarded noise — this sleeping world with its eye ajar?
I hear, and harmonize in quiet heed
its quick hegemony in life’s chaotic noise;
and what I hear is a quelling of all unwanted seeds
that liquidate this world of all melodic joys
It is the sparrow that splits the sky with a thunder,
a thunder that tip-toes through the splinter of the trees,
and how such a sound can cure this space, it makes me wonder,
Will my fears return when its beauty flees?
What is earth to this bird that bows upon a branch
and elevates its soul through a short evolving tune?
A long inviting moment where a song may implant
light into a darkness as evasive as the moon?
I may not know, so I must choose to listen,
for it is its song that numbs this world with moments long;
and in such moments, my soul will glisten,
and dance within the darkness to its morning song.
if rivers originate seas,
and indigenous skies fly
away where cities cannot rise
beneath Utopian rain,
and kings, who weep in dungarees,
mend to malt near castles
on native ground — where ghosts
invoke their mirth in vain,
and shadows dance
to the moon’s implicit sound –;
my pain would be peace,
a seed inching in each breath
fate kept neath the smile in me,
but the sea sends the sky
to watch over me now —
and i wonder,
is it i
or the river
Was bored and decided to experiment with some samples.
i fell face first into the sky,
free to flit with the birds,
but only my eyes
i’ll say one word,
and with that word
i will deliver to
that has yet to
from the veil
the human eye.