Living under both fugitive and gracious light, living within walls that no longer make a home. Living with assumptions in a world that scorns. One cannot demand love; it leaves the seeker tired and alone. The heart is no longer inspired by life; it is dead it is made of stone.
Thirst for creativity, hours to feel un-whole, feeble, no power no control. Troubled with no rest, walking upon the fallow ground, the fields like deserts, barren no heart no soul. Youth has gone; strength is gone, one’s foremost self-lost in the past, haunted by what went before.
No music, not even the sound from a rustic flute. The clouds of an obsessed storm in the sky, it groans with sadness. Visions clear, to be mute would be golden. No cares, wandering, nomadic, living from place, to place, another plane, the way is lost. Heart-weary, harsh, a dwelling a void, silence.
Fear and fatigue consume, will the body die. Evidence is in the stillness of a stone heart, it has grown weary and cold. The heart beats faster and faster, like a runaway train, sweeping through the soul. The deep cut into the soul cannot heal. The night-wind blows through a whisper of silver hair, soon it will be dawn. The night passed slowly.
Another day under the leafless tree, dew lays upon the body, watching the Robin looking beneath for a worm. Fall is here and the Robin will go south, soon a cold and frothy sea of white will cover the ground. Death is welcomed, emptiness, the trembling are now all stilled; time is winding to a close. Ashes will soon lay upon an icy shore, waiting for the melting ice to float them away.