Archive
05/02/12
Barn Swallow
As flittering as the flight of a barn swallow, across sunset's horizon, Has been the trajectory of my life's destiny, And equally fleetingly have its days dissipated into twilight.
Now, in the silence of this night's cloud-faded lunar haze, I listen for the slightest hissing of lisping wingtips, Which might whisper me home, through the gloaming of my old soul.
My fleshless bones lie so close to the grass, so quietly in the soil, That not even death can recognize their breathless presence, Here, in this refuge, so near to, yet so distant from, the nexus,
That mythical, mystical, metaphysical Scriptural resting place Located halfway between Creation's Garden of Eden and Paradise, Toward which my spirited substance is rushing.
Soon enough, who I was will be transmuted into who I'll be, And even my bones, cloaked in the robes of a barn swallow, Won't know that the coalescence of bird and earth ever occurred.
05/02/12
|
|||
|
|||
