There is nought so raw as the ebbing of numbness; it brings a volcanic spew, full hot, full raw. The fires of injustice are an inferno, but angel heart beware, take care; for it will consume all of you. Your soul it will render to ash, then it will incinerate your ashes too. Not a mote of what you once were, will exist evermore. So hold on, have patience, let it morph into righteous anger, that little known cousin of wrath. Your emotion is a fine thread yet, remember, always remember, what matters is the cloth you weave.
My joy is the bees of May, a-buzz and pollen freckled. My joy is a daisy congregation in happy chatter with the blushed globes of clover. My joy is the velvet ribbons of light that, from docile clouds, thread. Perhaps too, my joy is the world post snow-blizzard, the world of clean page possibilities. Yet my soul, she prefers the warmth you see, the warmth of sunny days. She prefers the kiss of butterflies and the fizz of lemonade. It’s not that I can’t take rough times, nor be a stalwart deepest troubles, but I wasn’t born for the grim gutters of the mind. I wasn’t born to heed the cynics' warbles. No! No! And so as the evening advances, as the street is moon-lit, I will step upon it as a friend of happiness.
Melancholy is winter’s cloak, woven of cold-spun cloud. For it descends as a foggy despondency, lethargic, grim. It smites my heat. It deadens my features. It renders my once bonny lips a doleful frown. I writhe, testing its limits, seeking its boundary as an emotional pioneer. It has an elastic quality, a stickiness too; then it becomes quicksand and salty too. Yet to find the better parts of my heart I must win. Surely as clouds rain themselves out of existence, this sadness will fall one drop at a time. Perhaps. Perhaps. Better to be the beggar of hope than the monarch of morose lament.
Melancholy is winter’s cloak, woven of cold-spun cloud. For it descends as a foggy despondency, lethargic, grim. It smites my heat. It deadens my features. It renders my once bonny lips a doleful frown. I writhe, testing its limits, seeking its boundary as an emotional pioneer. It has an elastic quality, a stickiness too; then it becomes quicksand and salty too. Yet to find the better parts of my heart I must win. Surely as clouds rain themselves out of existence, this sadness will fall one drop at a time. Perhaps. Perhaps. Better to be the beggar of hope than the monarch of morose lament.
The monarch butterfly was a-caper upon a carol of daffodils; daffodils singing out their colours, daffodils dancing out their blues. Its wings opened as a picture book, one of childhood days, fluttering as pages turned by a youthful hand. My gaze formed a ribbon, one of velvet light, from my heart to this insect of purest delight. If a life is to be measured in motes of joy, not in years, then am I not already the elder of so many peers? Perhaps. Perhaps. It is the artist's way, is it not, to see, to feel, to fold themselves into mother nature?
The monarch butterfly was a-caper upon a carol of daffodils; daffodils singing out their colours, daffodils dancing out their blues. Its wings opened as a picture book, one of childhood days, fluttering as pages turned by a youthful hand. My gaze formed a ribbon, one of velvet light, from my heart to this insect of purest delight. If a life is to be measured in motes of joy, not in years, then am I not already the elder of so many peers? Perhaps. Perhaps. It is the artist's way, is it not, to see, to feel, to fold themselves into mother nature?
The monarch butterfly was a-caper upon a carol of daffodils; daffodils singing out their colours, daffodils dancing out their blues. Its wings opened as a picture book, one of childhood days, fluttering as pages turned by a youthful hand. My gaze formed a ribbon, one of velvet light, from my heart to this insect of purest delight. If a life is to be measured in motes of joy, not in years, then am I not already the elder of so many peers? Perhaps. Perhaps. It is the artist's way, is it not, to see, to feel, to fold themselves into mother nature?
In the spring air my soul did repose as if butterfly-borne, borne by as many as Brighton beach has stones. The city breeze was a briny-bluster, yet the kind that elevates. The traffic lulled and surged as if caught in gentlest lunar-gravity. Then, as a kindling star, newborn in a nebular, a lyric sparked into life, lighting up my chest, lighting up my heart. My soles pounded the concrete pavement, the streets passed in a blur. To the birds that sung upon my route, the ones I noticed not, apologies! Deep apologies! Yet an idea-galaxy does not wait.
In the spring air my soul did repose as if butterfly-borne, borne by as many as Brighton beach has stones. The city breeze was a briny-bluster, yet the kind that elevates. The traffic lulled and surged as if caught in gentlest lunar-gravity. Then, as a kindling star, newborn in a nebular, a lyric sparked into life, lighting up my chest, lighting up my heart. My soles pounded the concrete pavement, the streets passed in a blur. To the birds that sung upon my route, the ones I noticed not, apologies! Deep apologies! Yet an idea-galaxy does not wait.
In the spring air my soul did repose as if butterfly-borne, borne by as many as Brighton beach has stones. The city breeze was a briny-bluster, yet the kind that elevates. The traffic lulled and surged as if caught in gentlest lunar-gravity. Then, as a kindling star, newborn in a nebular, a lyric sparked into life, lighting up my chest, lighting up my heart. My soles pounded the concrete pavement, the streets passed in a blur. To the birds that sung upon my route, the ones I noticed not, apologies! Deep apologies! Yet an idea-galaxy does not wait.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
Each raindrop was a butterfly, a butterfly of aqua-flight, of aqua-grace and sweetly smudged transparency. My sight they did fill with more beauty than any mortal heart can dream, than any mortal heart has a right to behold. Yet, in a docile daydream, in a poet's gentle moment, I did. I saw. I grew. Those water-motes, so cool and fine, were a gift. As light gave each a rainbow hue, as wind swept each into an aeronautic ballet, flowers scented each as lovely as rose water. And so, arms wide, palms to the cloud cosseted sky, I became their awaiting blossom.
Each raindrop was a butterfly, a butterfly of aqua-flight, of aqua-grace and sweetly smudged transparency. My sight they did fill with more beauty than any mortal heart can dream, than any mortal heart has a right to behold. Yet, in a docile daydream, in a poet's gentle moment, I did. I saw. I grew. Those water-motes, so cool and fine, were a gift. As light gave each a rainbow hue, as wind swept each into an aeronautic ballet, flowers scented each as lovely as rose water. And so, arms wide, palms to the cloud cosseted sky, I became their awaiting blossom.
Each raindrop was a butterfly, a butterfly of aqua-flight, of aqua-grace and sweetly smudged transparency. My sight they did fill with more beauty than any mortal heart can dream, than any mortal heart has a right to behold. Yet, in a docile daydream, in a poet's gentle moment, I did. I saw. I grew. Those water-motes, so cool and fine, were a gift. As light gave each a rainbow hue, as wind swept each into an aeronautic ballet, flowers scented each as lovely as rose water. And so, arms wide, palms to the cloud cosseted sky, I became their awaiting blossom.
A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
The night was a demon, glowering a full-featured scowl, setting the poor robin a-quiver. Darkness drew a cloak of icy-shadow around its avian heart, a heart that took to a sprint assuredly as if a shot were fired. A tempest wind of directionless angst stirred rain-droplets into a mist, a mean-spun mist that soaked puffed feathers through. Around his nested sticks, his place of sanctuary, a trolling taunt did whine. Those hours between sun fall and rise, were grim, were morose, were raw. They were a suffuse depression beyond my window pane. Yet for me, for the robin, little did we hear, the storm was fast losing its identity and the morrow would be bonny-bright.
The night was a demon, glowering a full-featured scowl, setting the poor robin a-quiver. Darkness drew a cloak of icy-shadow around its avian heart, a heart that took to a sprint assuredly as if a shot were fired. A tempest wind of directionless angst stirred rain-droplets into a mist, a mean-spun mist that soaked puffed feathers through. Around his nested sticks, his place of sanctuary, a trolling taunt did whine. Those hours between sun fall and rise, were grim, were morose, were raw. They were a suffuse depression beyond my window pane. Yet for me, for the robin, little did we hear, the storm was fast losing its identity and the morrow would be bonny-bright.
Oh, wallow, wallow tiny swallow, wallow in the crying hedgerow. See not the glower of the storm told large in low bruised cloud. See not how the light doth struggle, struggle to ignite the garden hues to the murmur of a whisper, a whisper mother nature intended sung full-loud. Let your wings protect your head and heart, as heaven would have them do. Yes! Yes! Darling bird, I beseech you, I bid you hide and thrive until this tempest is through. Then in the light, me with a skip, you with a flutter, we’ll while away the hours in blossom imbued companionship.
Oh, wallow, wallow tiny swallow, wallow in the crying hedgerow. See not the glower of the storm told large in low bruised cloud. See not how the light doth struggle, struggle to ignite the garden hues to the murmur of a whisper, a whisper mother nature intended sung full-loud. Let your wings protect your head and heart, as heaven would have them do. Yes! Yes! Darling bird, I beseech you, I bid you hide and thrive until this tempest is through. Then in the light, me with a skip, you with a flutter, we’ll while away the hours in blossom imbued companionship.
Oh darling feathered aeronauts, salve to every soul scratch and scar, do challenge your bonny range. For you sky-dance from high to higher, from lofty altitude to loftier still, and I am rendered in happiest awe. How my dreaming eye traces your air-path, the trail you skip upon with ease, writing your angelic script. Such is the attitude of the avian kind. The world, busy in its business may miss the enormity of your feats, but daily I see. I do. I witness. I love. So upon divine outstretched wings, glide and ride the free updrafts. Take your ease when you may and realise full-well how you’re adored.
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