Posted by on Apr 21, 2008 in Aging, Death & Dying, LIFE, Midabi, POETRY | 0 comments

The wind’s will wishes you not. For it switches you ever which way it would blow. You point past the peaks and say go.
 
It makes shapes of scapes and says no. rebirthYou work and prod and pull and full, you say ho! But then the sails for which your rails were meant to fill, now fall with no frill and you say, oh.
 
Left chaste, debased, with cause to erase the chase and the case you held against your own wind of sin and sorrow sown, you blow and blare into the air in hopes that you might know. Now freed to peace in pieces and ceased you then begin to grow.
 
What shapes and scapes that rapes the fate of places which we go? Too many names are there that blow the air and cheat its mighty row. I’ll keep attention in one direction and tell you when I know. Or keep an eye upon the sky until then when I go.
 
Then say what’s fore, belief found core, and un-envelope once more.