The Well

I hope one day to meet the source

Of this well with the bottomless wit.

Such peculiar games you play with me.

For every flame, a hundred never lit.

Toil

When you think you've reached the bitter end,

You've only breached the crust.

How many swings of the pick, young man?

In large numbers we place our trust.

Live for the moment you hit that vein

Of truth buried in the soil.

How deep and thick will the riches run?

How long will the last of us toil?

The Song

At the centre a beam of light hums,

Around which our patterns dance as drums

Beat to form the foundational heart

Of this Body in which we play our part.

Seeking our truest notes to sing

Resonant harmonies, the bell will ring

When each moves in its purest form

Among others of whom this life is born.

The Song awaits your novel view,

So pluck your strings - the days are few.

Eternal tapestry

I sense the first strands growing; 

The threads of fate pulling me towards the one 

Who will bind herself to me, and I to her. 

She is hidden from me. 

Her presence lingers beyond my vision. 

Yet I know she feels the same thread twisting, 

As it weaves itself between our wandering spirits. 

When we find the source of our shared yearning, 

Only then will the eternal tapestry's beauty be revealed 

In all its glory.

The Great Owl

With iron beak and glinting talon

He slew and grew too large to fathom.

In chill of night he asks us who;

Rhetorical inquiry cuts us through.

A rousing fear will sweep the floor

Of the forest steeped in ancient lore.

The Great Owl haunts and stalks the small, 

Who shiver when they hear his call.

Perfection

Always just beyond the grasp,

The moon hangs in the winter sky.

Crisp air. 

Rustling leaves.

The pierce of the owl's yellow eye.

Mediocrity

Middle of the road.

Middle of the street.

Middle of bloody nowhere;

Exactly the place we meet.

Pick a direction.

Move your feet.

Standing is deadly.

You'll put me to sleep.