A clay thought moves my open hand;
I shape it, round it, trim it, stand
And publish-throw it toward the skies,
Accessible to public eyes.
Some glide, fired, yet never truly fly,
A downward finger (gravity) rebukes their good-faith try:
Wingless clay pigeons ensured to surely die.
Others, praised, soar as the reader sings;
Such white doves ascend by angels’ wings,
Shed the earth that held them fast,
And flutter from a time-bound clasp.
Cease to worry,
Start to be —-
And hover in eternity.
No comments:
Post a Comment