The letting go
Like the change of season
One must grow up somehow, no?
As the flyleaf may wither
The ponderous march
The ponderous march
Silent, slow, statusque
Like the images
that are left
Do they ever go away?
Creased veins on a tree
Naked, chipped raw by age
Pretend, pander, portend
Obfuscated cracks
Yawned into a chasm
I walked away,
but the trail billows
Count my tread
It needs a shadow
Naked, chipped raw by age
Pretend, pander, portend
Obfuscated cracks
Yawned into a chasm
I walked away,
but the trail billows
Count my tread
It needs a shadow
The art of letting go,
ReplyDeletegained through suffering intense,
satisfies the master hence
The marks they never leave,
grow faded day by day,
and feel lighter with every stroke
And yet some marks are incandescent.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your comment :)
Why on earth did you stop writing?
ReplyDeleteThree years later. Same question.
ReplyDelete