Peace that floats like a butterfly over the network.
The soul like a bird swinging a crown across the aether–
the voice of him, her, them, you–
the sound of a fidgeting harpies’ battle cry for us all;
her hair is the swinging embrace of fate, amidst the beckoning sun over air;
the overture of fate without wings to fly, is a falling heartbeat across one’s watching eyes,
the face blushing with joy for the morning, and the air thrusted up the nostrils of the wandering,
peace be the swing of souls over souls, the eyes bid watch–
and the heartbeats of curious veins are lost, in the wonderland upon us.
Is it this dystopia that bids you anew in this world?
Or the pale sunlight across our skies, where the clouds float ominously? See them glide?
See the frost along the silver line?
The coldness in your voice, is the coldness in the air. Breathing in this man’s breathing air; despair is despair.
The golden sun is a glowing orb. Catch it with your hands.
The wandering ghosts of freedom in our country, catch it too with your hands.
Copyright March 20, 2019