By Paul Andrew Bourne, December 25, 2006
What is life without a story,
and what is a story’s essence without its moral
as it pains the psyche to know that you’re alone
on a trail of love’s trajectory –
because someone seeks the selfish end to the
tale
so…
I cried in pain’s anger
and, I laughed in emotion’s whisper,
I saw the end in the end
and wept with a poor man’s wealth
I saw the heavens opened to accept my pain–
as I reach to hold the wind in my grasp
but was I in a trance
as in the story’s end was its mirage beginning –
so
I cried, I cried, I cried
with a beggars’ delight
from being offered a pledge in faith
I cried, I could not cease
as I saw the wind
churning on its axis –
without my care in sight.
In a vase looking from inside
I saw the phantom,
it held its image in tranquil’s pose
as I held in the wind with my hand –
I witnessed the delusion
as the wind held its form
I could see the wind
unfolding in my hand;
its make was kind
but its force as subtle as a
woman’s wrath
so …
I cried in pain’s anger
and, I laughed in emotion’s whisper,
I saw the end in the end
and wept with a poor man’s wealth
I saw the heavens opened to accept my pain–
as I reach to hold the wind in my grasp
but was I in a trance
as in the story’s end was its mirage beginning –
so
I cried, I cried, I cried
with a beggars’ delight
from being offered a pledge in faith
I cried, I could not cease
as I saw the wind
churning on its axis –
without my care in sight.