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| Artwork by George Hodan |
It’s not easy, not really easy
Living at the edge of
horizon
Sun set not, moon rises late
Tidal feelings quake
indoor
Being is all but illusory being
Ethereal muse kindle me
out of self
Whilst amid time I’m tied to heave
Read not anymore my dear
eyes
For in every word is mourns of lonely
heart
Sculptured everywhere as
stars are to heavens
Hear no more my kind ears
For in every song are
cries of straying soul
Lost amidst foggy cold nights of December
Oh poor nose of mine,
divine you are
And innocent as wisdom is to the mad
Emperor
And hands are, I console
myself in thinking so,
Quaky as thoughts are to the touch of her
pure being
Our brokenness is a
language we cannot translate
Nor possibly understand where it springs
from
But its banks and beds
willingly set in our wildest dreams
I acquired poetry not for pitching my
voice high
But for waking gone-missed
mountain lovers
With the loudest amongst all my silent
hearts
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