Picture by anonymous
As the leaves change on the branches that sway,
The colors warm and the skies cool from scold
The wind's dance shift in a quicker rhythm,
An illusion forms like there is no paused breath.
Every moment is imprinted with altering patterns
A never ending spell of motion
Like a hurricane yet devoid of chaotic clamor.
From the compound, there is no association
Deficient of the activity of blazing fire,
But of gradual snowflakes that suspend
Where the hum of rush is dreaming.
The white frost grazes against thoughts
That wonders on better prospects
And the winter arctic is unforgiving
Where time is distorted with a chronicle
Initiating episodes of consequence and encounters
A stumble insinuated a fall.
A still glass shell that sustains an unwieldy solitude
So that an icy seclusion is separated from the sway
A sway of warm colors and wake of movement,
Which has worn through a fatigued mind
And cannot recollect a profit for such.
A private world is not the external world;
A season of mine is not a season of strangers,
And the ripples of water will tread through
In the glass globe without a stir.
An inner existence.
Where time drags across the midnight skies,
The blur of frozen motion that ripples like the sea
and the coldness of the breezes dance,
Upon and through the trees.
The green leaves flutter and begin a song
As golden beings of the wind raise their voices.
The earth joins in the rhythms,
As the stars twinkle from afar,
In cold silence.
And then time echoes and sighs,
While the voices of man washes over time,
Remembering a need and a movement
That sways and circles a certainty.
Where a heart misplaced,
Thoughts that grew as wild vines,
Presently rising from the horizon like the sun,
and placed into order of natural light.
This passing moment in time,
There is not a faint impression;
There is only the globe that does not stir.
