Seasons To the Season Insight Words Before Childrens Eyes the Tao Of

Seasons, to the Season Spring streams, Summer dreams, no longer to be seen for they have come to be dry, the gold, yellow, brown and red of what will no longer be able to show it’s faces in green for they leave behind the ties that bind – leaves are dead laying across the forests, fields, lawns, streets - leaves have fled the buds of spring, the full bloom of summer, in the death of Autumn days to decay from life, from memory, form sight, into other ways that become the life – a part of something new. Another perspective to see, another point of view for those who want to know, even though, we are few. Once again, – as has for millions and millions of year – comes an end, a change to all that reaches out – with tears – as it touches the edges of deaths cold, decaying door leaving all to the light, with nothing more as the light of day continues to shrink from view and the darkness of night expands upon me and you, becoming ghostly shadows that make up our nightly stew. Insight My lifeless, brown eyes, see the real deal. My perceptive, inner eye, knows the feel, as I look through the windows to my soul, into the reflections, of all it is, I think I know as the seasons pass me by, leaving one more to go through – foe ever how long – before I become my soul. Words before Children’s eyes Far to many - these days – play on keyboards they have seen. As desire sick, thoughts depraved, become words on a screen That tell all who can see, what they truly mean, what is to know, in what they show, of what they have been and what they are, but it takes a mature eye, so keen, to see, to understand, to know the mind of a fiend. This is not the place - for young minds – in my dream scene. The Tao Of Muhammad Ali - CC Words flying by my eyes, of life being lived – despite the hardships of a debilitating, diseased body – on the wings of contentment, of satisfaction, of accomplishment beyond that of us mere mortals and in their passing, soft sodium laden droplets fall onto the reality of, and life, as it is for the hand, the soul of the one who reads and writes, dies and cries, morns the loss of the Great. B. J. “A” 2 ( Bill . ) October 20th 2002