it is the plaintive lament of the sojourner,
his curiosity directed to discovering
what is the fate of the roots,
once them loosed of the Ground?
~ ~ ~
Immortal
disclaim me not
In mahogany nor pine,
but find me ashes
blowing in the Wind
~ ~ ~
Here
what is it my love,
this angel comes when the moon does not look
by stealth in the wee hours amidst the blackness,
finds my cheek and there her lips imprinted
for me to find at morn’s first light,
left to reassure,
to tell uncertainty will never overcome Me?
~ ~ ~
Phoenix
and from the storm arisen
spawned of blackened thunder
by haste the calm ensues
despair made chaste,
chased beyond the moon
knows hope Renewed.
~ ~ ~