A poem for the Creative.
Though my wings are clipped,
I sing of heaven’s sound,
before its lyrics fade away
into earth’s hollow ground.
Now with anchored feathers,
I lift my lantern high,
and though tethered to the dark,
it’s lured to the sky.
I wander through the forest
to find a glade thereof,
and I come upon a box
to feed the dwellers from above.
Am I looking at a mirror
and that’s why I feel confined?
Are these wooded walls imposed
to arrest my restless mind?
A familiar view peaks through
with a glow that’s artificial,
except the fire of their hearts
until it starts to fizzle.
But I can’t slow down now,
lest my dreams unravel.
In the distance I see clearing
and that’s where I must travel.
My reflection reverberates
with indigo well suited
for the waters of dreary grey
in the earth firmly rooted.
I fish for golden dapples
from this sunshine memory,
but its song is a cacophony
and its light just a mimicry.
In the circle of suburbia,
I see manufactured marvels.
For their homes are catacombs
and their people missing parcels.
As they shout for company
nature performs in peace.
When will that holy hymn
and her songbird be released?
I gather wool in the wind,
so finally I may levitate,
with my head lost in a cloud,
and feet turned into featherweight,
I rise to join a symphony
with nature to abstract from:
The dream is my instrument
and reality my platform.
