Is His To Find
The monks line of sight,
lays low upon the horizon,
multi-shifting clouds
cast long glances,
upon the land, longing
to stretch its calloused feet,
relieving the earthy itch;
like a salty brine water,
saturates, maybe invigorates,
as it commiserates in sobs,
casting broad for its sister,
the osmotic sea.
His naked eyes
blur the dark outlines,
as he pencils In an
apt impressionistic
frown, of which he
caught mindfully open;
the door to the soul, he
intuits is his to find,
alone In the crowd;
like slogging through time;
as when walking through
the wet craggy bogs
of his woes;
as the line of site fades
in trance, not forgotten,
his myths encircle
his way.
Copyright © Dennis Foss | Year Posted 2021
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