By Rosebrier, Nov 2010
Good morning, lover boy,
good morning, pretty girl.
Lets wake up and give this thing a whirl.
Good morning, lover boy,
good morning, pretty girl.
Lets wake up and give this thing a whirl.
I’ve been saying,
for way too long.
Its time for moving on.
I want to sit with you,
on an adirondack chair.
Facing west.
Looking out on what,
appears to be emptiness.
The horizon blurred by the reflection.
Freeing all illusions,
detachment of present emotions.
Freedom of the ego.
Empowered by knowledge,
of the Divine.
Deactivated.
Replaced with pulsing waves,
igniting in to motion.
Deep subconscious vortexes.
Subjective to sensory faculty,
accurately process the input.
Reflecting the emotions.
Hear the creation of sound,
as the waves lap on the
sandy ocean.
The sound,
omnipresent in time.
Leaves space to the otherworld.
Travel using your senses,
as your guide.
Transporting imaginations.
Into the the space where I can
only imagine
a monarch butterfly.
The reproduction of that image
requires stimulation of my
other senses.
In order to imprint
its notation on my
fragmented brain.
Migrations, flocking
Attraction is fleeting and fluttering.
Seemingly random and graceful.
Symmetry of socializing immigrations.
Collection of native spirits
Attachment is made.
Ensuring procreation of the species,
from the monarchs’ wings escapes a note.
Vibration.
Balances its wings as
notes flow outward.
Flooding the astral plane.
Higher consciousness travels
to new beginnings,
from old endings.
It creates magic, as it ignites
and sparks the biological wonders that are common in each of us.
I live in a place where I can
imagine a collection of
wildflowers.
Gardened by the wild and
tamed by natures’ force.
Growing green grass.
A place where my footprints
have not walked.
Among the foretold lands.
No hands have fondled the doe.
She is pure
as driven snow.
A dream of lovers, whose hearts are as one.
The scent of them,
left under the sun.
Row me on the still
waters that reflect
and release my soul.
