Not even the dreaded woodlands can make me this frigid tonight
Eyes shot, ears raised, heart beating like festive drums
The horrid fear of the known, ached pleasure for the familiar unknown
The certainty of what to come, the mask neatly placed on what I sense
So close I feel the scent of it, yet my hands cannot reach its edges
Through the windows of my mind the truth to me slowly unfolds
With precision sharper than the samurai sword my doubts had me
Will it be the oak tree that will fall? Or the rise of dry lands out to the deep blue?
Queries that circuits my curious mind from dawn to dusk!
Should I take off or simply slide away into the night like an owl?
The voice I hear are close to home, once I danced to these eccentric tunes
Over the horizon something glides towards my shaky steady feet
Transfixed in my perfect confusion and overwhelmed with exhausted hope
Yet, there is still this painful melodious rustling of the grass!
April 12, 2017