Looking to the East
Surging burning Fires Spirited Song
Holding warmth of summer’s spiraling tune
Crunching of the leaves afoot delivering autonomously — falling from the tree of life transfigured ascetically, whilst collapsing sounds of wind inflated memories — once known, forgotten spoken truths, frozen in the tracks completed the ones moreover not yet taken.
Deliver this soul — humbled by a play-on of words, battle’s fatigue between the player’s mix — right and left, lost and found beneath the crisp, frosted dew left behind in the airy night — falls to the presence of winter’s dream — shadow-filled disturbing thoughts sitting in the cold ancient dwelling place not fit for the weak in spirit.
Presently the veil of starry skies — ripped open to the guidance of ancestral beings, knowing of things not studied by daylights chaotic tunes — of another sort — out amidst the fields of tranquility filled with ever-changing budding fruits nourishing with vitality.
Ask them neither how they came to be nor the plagued foreboding inner truths — leading to this moment in time — instead, looking to the east, surging burning fire within — knowing confidently we are who we are — no explanation necessarily exchanged.
Winter is coming — foretold by wisdom bearing calls to inner-workings — enters the cave of knowledge, gratuitously gazing at valley’s death delivering blow — at the heart of sentient’s alike — holding the warmth of summer’s spiraling song — lifting the spirit into the darkest of nights.
With a familiar sound — night falls echoing songs — the return of the Hooters telling tales of aviary flight — not the triples or doubles d’s but my brothers and sisters guiding me. Who cooks for you — screeching and howling from barn’s hidden space— the hooters return.
~Ani Po
Thank you Zay Pareltheon, Viraji Ogodapola and the Howling Owl for housing these words.
