Dimension of Truth

The woods, they sing a poem in a voice tinged with green
a dark mauve and black envelop the trunks of the old trees
what is the color of a dream again? Nothing but a melange.
A timid blue breeze flows like the elegant silks of a queen
an orgiastic symphony of gnarled branches and spiny leaves
an owl stirs quietly in the thicket as he delivers the message.

Deeper in the shadows, there is a cool silence waiting to burst
into a dimension of truth that is not yet known to mankind
the moon shines through the yellow weeping willow
while the universe creates a subtle story of hunger and thirst
a tale of dreams, desires and the wilderness within the mind
and it may live for an eternity in a realm that is hidden below.

Dark Blue Passion

His eyes; they are the color of sapphire blue of the night sky
a mysterious desire sets them ablaze with golden hues of amber
his heart, his fierce heart of Quitratue spews red hot burning lava
a deep dark passion flows in my fragile green veins once again
and I dwell in desperate despair through the desolate wilderness.
He is fire, he is thunder, he is truth eternal and he is my reflection
in waters of a well so deep within the soul, light fails to fathom!

Sometimes In Winter

I think of the warm yellow sand and green butterflies
under our feet the river swirled and sang little songs
in little emerald pools. Your eyes glimmered with desire.
That afternoon I buried a part of me under the dunes.

Then I saw you at the alpine lake one last time
I remember the scent of lilacs and of your words
under the starlit skies, the world fell utterly silent
I have never been good with words anyway.

There are scars of loss, pain and of memories
but there are somethings that I would never lose
your song still hangs in the moonlit shadows
and sometimes in winter I fall asleep listening to it

My Metaphorical Run

First it was the Peace pagoda, with its height and sharp angles
Poor thing! it must have seen war and its many ugly stories
so it must hold on to itself tightly against the autumn wind.
Cherry trees eager to lose their leaves lightly sway in its shadow
a breezy yellow against the crisp blue tones of November sky
because their time of spelndor is not here yet, they must wait.
The pagoda stands shrouded in metaphor.. is it a symbol of peace?
In its silent indignation, it is perhaps a riddle for future generations?

Then it was a beautiful old church with its wonderful architecture
stained glass windows stream early evening light in golden hues
there were hundreds of lit candles and someone playing the organ
a jolt of memory; a burst of fragrance - of marigolds and incense
it was a different time and a different place, yet the same reverie
I appreciate the two people praying in shrines to their patron saints
I hope with a deep conviction that their hearts and lives find peace
this too was an imposing and magnificent metaphor.. but of what?

Then it was at the lookout. The wind was blowing cold against the skin

a sprawling city lay below; a metaphor for human achievement?

a father walking his daughter home and he is skipping along with her!

"Will you mourn me? Will you pray for me?" - Suddenly a tear appears

in the shape of a glass sphere.. stays standstill in the vacuum shimmering.

Look closely, you find the desire of the entire universe reflected in it

with its vast emptiness longing to find something.. something palpable

to feel alive, to know its own complicated self! Of course, a metaphor!

I want to keep running.. past those 6 miles, past the palpable desire, past eternity 

into the arms of nothingness and into pure bliss! Is it really a metaphor?