To everything, a time to weep and move on for good reason. Too many blood-red sufferings and restless hours. That offer only fog and winds of apathy. Yet, life is a privilege to thrill with virtuous passions. To kiss in autumn, a summers song, and again. I guess I will live on. I guess I will move on.
Is there an end to wanting, passion and egoism? I choose to see a little Buddha seated in all of us. In the butterflies on street corners, and the rise of rainbows after summer rains. Like the little streams making their way to the river. I cannot help but hear and see heaven and earth are flowing as one. And I lose myself under the stars, and the sounds of the river flowing.
The Sharp-edged sword, is my pen. Inviting a wind until the very last day. Then I shall disappear into the clouds. And behold the moon, so dear to us. But my soul, remains forever yours. No longer returning to emptiness.
Isn’t there a beautiful place somewhere? Where I can touch your soft body. And coalesce in our sweet kisses, just like before. The harsh wind may continue, and the cities crumble. But we are strangers in this place. For we have our love, abundant in its fullness. Calm like a summer sky and without weariness. This is our way.
What is this image I see? My sins and my sadness piled up before me. A soul conscious of something missed? Leaving no trace. I think not. Just a few stones from a life of substance, and those fragile summers. Fading in a moment, when my eyes open to your world of love.
In autumn grasses the world’s restless ways remain unseen. The streets and the fields all look withered. But I have made a pledge to stay beside my love. For all my ages to come. Where else could I find a place to glimpse the moon. Whilst tasting such sweet lips, as light from the sun.
If I had my way I would put you in the sky, night and day. And let you wash over me with shafts of sparkling lust. Until the days make a year. And the years make a lifetime. My mind would no longer be lost in the past. Nothing would seem far away. Together, we would receive the setting sun. Leaving only the cherry blossoms and crimson leaves, to tell the tale of how it was.
Winter will soon be here again. Sometimes brutally. What should I do? I have felt the hurt of dawn. And fearful peaks of childhood. Along with great, great bliss. From that sweet island love. Measured moment-by-moment. What should I do?
A small bit of light that is all they ask for. But the current weather swoops down each day. With a roused breeze. Muting light and life and endorsing only the small boats. That sail close to the shore and matter little to anybody.
All day and every day. A gathering doom rustling through the streets. An echo without a voice. Up above, a single magpie stuck in time and place. Still trying to soar continuously. Pulling in the dead leaves as they fall. And still looking for the joys of life after all these years.
A Wandering Poet 