Tags: humanifesto | poem | ramblings

feral in the fields

was it all just a dream

this bliss with such grace

desire

to make it slow

to take it low

what it means to be low

and in the flow

to feel the breeze

and to lift you high above the clouds

the easy stillening of the muscles

as you prepare for flight

the laughter

of a swirling blue rose

down the road from

the one who sleeps by the fire

different languages

keep us fresh

good work

if I can find it

the lights of a city

and love in a doorway

outside they laugh

at our prison of roses

where the time flies

and I wait for the breeze to

push me through

the grace

the easy grace

of the love

that bleeds like open petals

from the softness

of your rounded lips

making tones

and possessed by an Islander

from Iceland

with a message of love

that pushes against my ears

and makes me agree

that I love hair

I'm excited

Its okay to be free

not to work at star rise

the same questions will haunt me

the next morning

what to do

with all the earthlings

and the chaos of a heart

that desperately

has faith in them all