Just rambling poetic philosophy.

Written by whitbypoet1


Only miniscule reflections in the middle of a space
Crowded pastures of another kind, or of another place,
A gently mirrored masquerade alone and so afraid
In the centre of a playground, where once our children played,
And the echoes of forever touch each corner of a night
Where a crystal ball still glistens with the gift of second sight,
Secured in their intensity, reflections weave themselves
Then within a quiet feathered Psalm, they sleep upon their shelves.

A far off sense of whispering is lost against the breeze
Like the gentlest treetops blowing, like the last yawn of tired seas
Even Faeries cried as the last words shivered then faded
As on a beach against the winds, a dream catcher still waded
And everywhere vague and surreal the dreams of evening shine
For only through the heart  and soul do living dreams combine,
No matter how a moment darns our whispered hopes and dreams
They seem to have a stubborn mysticism of parting at the seams.

And as life’s silken liquids laminate its necessary needs
There is a piece of heaven where the living soul still feeds,
No matter if a sunbeam dies a thousand times a day
Though it drops beneath the shadows, still it never goes away,
And though a poem can sing a thousand songs, it only writes the lines
Yet sometimes shouts and thunders, as if heaven and hell combines,
While the poet is fascinated by the furore that he makes
He wanders only yesterdays, tomorrows he forsakes…


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