Sunday, April 8, 2007

The Mind Game

There is a garden of fertile soil,
With butterflies and caterpillars in
The dampness of a spring morning...
Some seeds wait in the pile,
Some buds long the touch
Of an early sunrise..

The fish that once was high
On its drunken air,
Now gasps for the drop,
Water took out of its life..

What is a cruel word?
Absent or in satiated?

Lives crawl season by season,
Leaving specks of dirt and flowers
On stations of a nonstop train.

And it continues...

With a shell of disguise worn
On a scarred face, it walks..

And we follow..

Life sleeps into a dream,
Hibernating into a bitter sweet death.

Don’t forget...we are on a nonstop ride.

Figures melt and form,
Oceans crave and die.
Sculptors drown in their emptiness,
With their master pieces spoiled.

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