I believe that life speaks a tongue of longevity, and humanity is the small twigs that rustle with the breeze…
I wonder intrinsically where my wandering thoughts may be betraying me, though it’s only my decision of whether or not I allow them to forsake me.
To grasp a language that is not my own…
“Grasping my own tongue has proved to be much more difficult than simply touching it to my nose…” I told my friend aimlessly and now I find astoundingly; that is still how my saying goes.
We have prayed for fortune and pardon, wealth and disgrace; love and spite, always seems to be how it goes with the human race.
Fighting future and it’s raised arms of defence; the past is so tempting though it begs for regrets.
Finally now though, I’m beginning to see the patterns in how the Forrest weeps; however still alien to me, these concepts whisper only in my dreams.
Eternal balance it screams as I erupt among the living; pondering of the times I have ceased to be.
Though living is a word for which I think I’d like to redefine as I continue my grapples with reality in time.
Sewing together my farewells like a blanket you can hold once I leave; thread barren it may be, more greetings shimmer downstream.
For now I hope my poetry strikes a chord within thee, and even if only slightly, it was a pleasant read.
A beautiful scenery I imagine it will be, just around the bend of the 7th old oak tree.