Happiness is the wind
That lifts the wings of the heart
To soar above the world we see
Into a realm of boundless truth;
That within each recognition lays
the possibility of an entire lifetime.
The past is no more clear than tomorrow
It is born still wet, and never dry
Until the end of change when we become
Fixed in a forgotten frame. It is wet
until memory loses touch with its maker,
All pages wither, and its bindings fail.
Even then, might breath disturb the dust…
Or laughter
No comments:
Post a Comment