Being is change. We are but a return
drawn to the source, on loan,
conglomerating thought
with rooted feelings,
yet bemoan the ever floating self.
We burn
all bridges to the past, a past that dies
as we advance, grow high
and long for skies.
The grasp to fly
leads to eternal quest.
We’re searching prone
to find the heavens,
struggling alone
to reach the stars,
their brilliance, as they shine.
Are they but stone?
Preserve and serve as trees
that fiercely guard their sap
sending it up in vigorous dreams,
branched out, forever rising
in green wide worlds.
Yet down below,
they strongly know the earth.
They hold it dear, by rooting underground,
their place of birth.
When storms unleash,
all dreams are blown apart.
Survival becomes art, as the days pass.
Ominous skies are filled with night.
A gust of wind, a desperate beating heart,
extinguished light, we all foresee the fall.
A brought down tree, the silence after all...
Yet deep below the new world germinates,
though still concealed and only to be guessed.
Being is change, it does not terminate
forgotten faces, flames that have blown out.
The stricken tree keeps growing heavenwards,
the heart aims for the stars, to lighten
what is stone.
