Where you are supposed to be is,
Standing firmly with faces to the sky,
Sunset over your shoulder to the west.
Clouds macerating in swirls and hues of which your heart feels so content,
All adherence is in the warmth of the sharing of space.
Winds blow your aura past you,
In shapes for only such so wanted in the wishes within you to whisk away,
Apart from familiar reflection and at stance with inner frustration.
Where can we ever really live our lives?
Forbidden adaptation migrates then infiltrates for to alternate passive motives to aggressive moves within you as sky falls dark around your body and arms,
Spread about for to embrace a power brought from the land,
And happiness grown from tedious trials amongst a nation trite by habitual tribulation.
Feet and frame rooting from veins in your legs,
This assistance tends to abide with limits,
Toward insubordinate missions for distance.
Preclusion in view of aftermath’s forethought,
Reciprocates any lender’s lease, Void.
The you and whom of which were the words and text,
needn’t be left without toil or reflect,
Once wise wishes whisper within where willing ways wait,
There, from then to when you rest,
Nothing is ever not there.
It’s really me and I that’s said to the winds and skies,
Through eyes like your’s and mine,
Inside said trials of life,
Reeling we see,
All such sans face for seeds.
Planted and grown to be,
In spite of the ways of how contemptuous this cycle is,
Bound side by side and burdened to survive,
Amid this plain,
Baring no other trees.
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