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.