Mysteries of the Present.

Like the little sorrows,
That flood the tiniest of cracks...

sipping in incessantly...

The fleeting memories of happy times...

Like mirages that clouds or vision

Everyday spent loosing it to the winds.

The tune of soft music,

the rhythm of a lax tap.

A wall propped up before us,

relentless soft whistle of the wind,

the cold of the night,

silent whispers of the stars above,

keenly watching the aches of ages,

The moan of the land beneath,

as fresh dew melts into nothingness..

The soft patter of raindrops,

The sculptor knows the secret,

the master tapestry of every inch of our lives,

Isn't God wonderful?

Behold the gracefulness of a deer,

The slimy taste of pain,

each and everyday we breath,

others take their last,

Isn't it a MUST to say thank you.

Then came love,

before that,there was hate,

then a little voice in us, nudges us,

to the epitomes of unending abyss...

Doomed is he, who grips ego to submission

I write much with a pen,

I speak less with my lips,

Read the face and feel the temperament.

The red of the roses,

the joy of the heart that loves,

life gives us both sides of a coin,

Today we are distressed,

not by our own doing,

but by the sentimental core of our existence,

I miss the times of the old,

where norms prescribed the paths,

to be called an elder is sacred,

for this I write with a weeping heart,

a mindless rhetoric you may say,

but it's me Loughran.

I smell Christmas around the corner. It comes with many blessings!

Gerry.

Comments

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