There Is a Place To Call Our Own Part 3
A hazel tree, or some delicate rose,
Whose opening will be like the universe.
From nothing but a little seedling, came
Magnificence, and soon it too will wither,
Only to be followed by a tracing of its perfection.
And shading the plains was nightfall,
An awakening in its own right! Athwart
The covering, several miles past,
Girdling on the onset of some sprouting
ground, instilled in each eye that had
The distinct pleasure of guarding over
Its serenity, kept with it the true essence.
Inclining were stacks of autumn leaves,
Floating in the summer winds,
While breathing back a wintry sigh,
Dancing gaily like the spring flowers,
All together were one - a clever confusion.
There was no clear definition of what this was,
Nor a predestined form for it to take,
Nor still some favorable fate, it was ever being
Written, penned in the ink of life! Inscribed on the paper
That was the very plains we slept on. And while
Glaring outward towards the skies,
We listened quietly, for maybe
A star would burst, and a new
Sight would fill our view,
Or maybe some sun would implode, creating
A spectacular clash of light,
Overflowing with colors indiscernible
To our meager eyes. Our passions
Could not match this! Our tunes could not meet this!
Our symphonies we write are just worthless scribbles on
Some shed tree bark. And this the sweet stuff we call Life!
There existed no presupposed form,
This was the form! Leaving the audience in
Some trance- a mystic trance.
Befalling their minds
Were questions with most uncertain replies.
Yet in the other direction, perhaps, would
Rise a tempest, or some impregnable wall
Of water, and a war between light and day would erupt.
Simply to claim their territory - which would have the better claim?
Considering all of this would certainly
Leave the unsuspecting viewer helpless,
Rendering him insane, or merely dreaming.
And this threshold thrived in between.
The skill of this crafter of speechless perfections!
Spirits of the moon, or of the seas,
Or yet a guardian of the hills,
Or maybe still a king presiding
Over kingdoms -
We were here simply trespassing
In the backyard.
Copyright © Jaque Ro | Year Posted 2016
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