Silent words, yet ceaseless calling.
I envy the simple way of a falling leaf.
No grasping, nor fear of falling.
If a thought could twist on the wind for its brief life -
not frantically seeking hold.
We would not live these dear lives strafed by strife.
We'd not find our dreams bought and sold,
or feel untimely turning old -
vigor sapped by a false form of cold.
And life would be all we had to live.
This entry was posted in mind, poem, Poetry, Thoughts and tagged life, poem, poetry, Thought by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.