Vast unfolding consequence of exotic dreaming raptures,
fenced by burdened reality.
Escape artists flocking to chemically false annihilation of strife,
tortured by their intelligence.
Deepest penetrating roots screaming truth to delusional ears,
tomorrow, after fleeing darkness,
problems are worse,
compounded by revelry's regretful posing.
Realisation whips us to pace, running, running,
then, too tired to sprint, too hurt to walk,
too grieved to trudge, too depressed to talk...we hide.
In dreamer's solace drifting hidden,
lifted on spirit gilded ethereal wings.
Particle free matter of thought's science defying breeze,
transport us higher.
Sought in sleep the Monk's retreat,
subconscious absorbing answer's clues,
we fly, at peace.
Body's jarring mortal needs stir us from heavenly repose,
dragging upright muscle mechanism,
meaning forgotten movement, we're here.
Deep breath mirrors inner monologue,
reflective pep talker's shaving grace, we're here,
ready to flee again later.
Life, in absconding thoughts,
significance of which is mostly missed, holds many keys.
Those minutes by the bus stop Tree in dappled emerald magic shades,
Sun's crystal oeillade behind dancing leaves,
veins of their ancient hearts pulsing sap in rhythms we dreamt.
The mirrored world inside a raindrop's fluid shivers,
hanging from the tip of a grey city's black umbrella,
how small yet large we are in thought,
such messages painted on water's dripping gallery.
The feather floating through the frame of your gaze,
held aloft by invisible forces that fundamentally scream, "I'm here,"
by just lifting the hair on your arms as it catches that feather symbol freedom.
Elusive glimpses of oneness,
as there you stand suited for your day in the song of the western wind...
here is your reality without constraint,
free from needs to chemically taint,
here is life,
to breathe and understand that breath,
to be filled with this,
in each and every moment hence forth.
To live, is never to run and hide,
such is but existence,
all things make all things turn,
live,
to be alive.
©David Nickle Read 2014
The mirrored world inside a raindrop's fluid shivers,
hanging from the tip of a grey city's black umbrella,
how small yet large we are in thought,
such messages painted on water's dripping gallery.
The feather floating through the frame of your gaze,
held aloft by invisible forces that fundamentally scream, "I'm here,"
by just lifting the hair on your arms as it catches that feather symbol freedom.
Elusive glimpses of oneness,
as there you stand suited for your day in the song of the western wind...
here is your reality without constraint,
free from needs to chemically taint,
here is life,
to breathe and understand that breath,
to be filled with this,
in each and every moment hence forth.
To live, is never to run and hide,
such is but existence,
all things make all things turn,
live,
to be alive.
©David Nickle Read 2014
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