the raindrop...
slides softly down my nose to touch the ground
It's dreary, gray, not yet the weekend
Waiting...
for I don't know what anymore
or perhaps more accurately...
yearning for a restoration that cannot yet be
the more ideas and theories spin round my brain, the less they enthrall
there was a time when all felt fresh and new,
each day an adventure of endless possibility
perhaps the days still are
but those fleeting joys aren't enough anymore
actually, they never were
an illusion...
a glimpse...
a glimmer...
of something more
but never the thing itself
The thing
is not something to be grasped
or taken
it can only be received
oh, to behold it,
to drink from its founts
but alas, not yet
I dream of green pastures
with no end
A river
whose waters are crystal clear
and sparkle like diamonds
its falls crest atop a precarious peak
but there is no danger
In my mind's eye
friendships that do not fade
old men who never tire
at last the artist can finally depict an image in its full truth
no more masks
no pretenses
no disenchantment
not exactly what one might call sheer bliss
perhaps better put, fullness of being
at last…
to think it's not just an illusion,
the stuff of children's stories,
of whose memory I lament.
it is pulsing
within and without
coursing through the being of the universe
to not want or need the next thing
because you have it all and more
a flicker in the distance
on the matchstick sunset
reminds me it is looming.
like the big dipper
that shows its face on each clear night
it will surely come.
as surely as
the birds fly south in the winter,
the buds resurface in the spring
the very thought is moving me
i am moved for it is there
so many things i doubt, but not this
freedom.
chains unhinged.
a bright morning glow of new tomorrow.
coloured reflection is becoming face to face.
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