The Poetry of Life

I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light, then wander off into a night of promises and empty eyes, the kind that used to hold surprise when church songs played in moonlit rain, afraid to wander back again through open doors and empty hearts, until the rhythm of night departs, like shadow paintings on a wall, the kind that dance, but never call. I know the mysticism of time, so much gone by within my rhyme so much still here, so much to come, yet even time stands still for some, for hours are bolsters for a head to dream of life and death instead of dreaming silently away the hours of each poem of day, life’s poetry holds certain charm, it holds you up from fault or harm, then brings you back to Earth again, to laugh your joys, or feel your pain, I write to breathe, I breathe to live, for words hold many things to give to tortured souls and hearts that grieve, to countless spirits that believe. I seek the beauty that seeks me, a celtic song, a sleeping sea, a moonlit road that points the way to everything life needs to say, a baby’s laugh, a robin’s call, so much to touch me after all, the souls I meet upon the road, the friends who wish to share my load to lift me up, to share a joke, when shoulders bow beneath the yoke but most of all a heart to share, to walk with me to who knows where to hold me close when it gets dark, to raise me up just like a lark to lay by me as evenings dim, so much of life is like a hymn...