12 August 2010

The Observer

The wind...
is everywhere.
The mountains in the distance...
What color is that? Grey? Blue?
Nothing more beautiful than that undecided hue...

Grey parsons...
The hovering patriarchs....
Clouds of snow and ash...
Bring blessing of sorts, to the heated brow.
Oh, to stand 'neath the shower and grow...

...Like the trees...
They dance, a dance
Of passion, hair blowing in time...
To the beat of the wind and rain,
And they kiss the setting sun's mane.

The earth...
Unfurls a sigh...
Her breath fresh
From the nectar of new showers
And I stand, captive of her powers...

Behind cold glass panes...
Of a routine that dictates,
Chains that shackle my song,
That broke my wild joys, now tame
And locked them behind a window frame.

3 comments:

Karen Xavier said...

Did you write this, its really beautiful...

Jane Hamilton said...

@Karen, Yep, I wrote it! It's kinda nice that you find it hard to believe I wrote that...in a weird way, but still, nice.

Thanks!

dazzlingray said...

Wow! Wah ustad wah!Lovely!

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