The poetry that sings from the soul

Dwells in a tangle down below

The swirling shadow of the undertow


The face that appears in the fire

With yellow eyes born in the pyre

Is a spirit from the squalor of mire


The hand that wields the hatchet

Deconstructs its world with a ratchet

Without a will to match it.


The silhouettes we see at noon

Visit us from the moon

And act like they live in cartoons.


A journey without destination

Requires steadfast dedication

Without temptation for hibernation.


The footprints we leave in the sea

Are symbolic of our mortality:

Brief, then gone for eternity.


Now, I wake me up to stand

Guided by the Morning’s hand

We are few who understand.


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