Slipping free from yester's time,
A Feather trapses yond the way,
On wind it floats, a step, sublime,
Dipping and ducking flakes of grey,
Those forged by winter, the sun's decay,
Plates of ivory, why must they hack?
Torn soil, a relic of why you turn away,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Sea, so fair, shimmering as a chime,
As the wind you switch, and you sway,
And your blues shine like a dime,
But if he drifts beyond the bay,
Will waters claim him, as they say?
Or shall he wash back, with the wrack?
To you, O Sea, he mustn't stray,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Mount, your peak, the rigorous climb,
At your summit, scores kneel and pray,
Your caps glow white, with a grass bed of lime,
If you were where the feather must stay,
Shall your perils bring him fray?
Must he lie in caves of black?
Nay, a feather must fly, and outward he must splay,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

O Feather, O Feather, where will you spend your days?
Here I must halt on the trail of your track,
Seize the wind, O Feather, the world is your prey,
Soar away, O Feather, and don't float back.

Nothing has never been scheduled,
but the power of the question.

Itself, the world makes no sense,
without scheduling it doesn’t.

And it’s not the freedom to think,
or even the calmness of free will.

It goes deeper inside with no trace,
so people use to believe what they don’t.

When hopes become the sole odds,
when the odds become triggered defeats.

And so, people will forever value and worry,
but what’s the beginning and the end?

The past seemed to not be determined,
and the future; yes; it does.

You all forget your past was your future,
and your present never dies.

Arriving to the conclusion of non-caring about that,
to just live or feel comprehensive about your now.

And never about your after or before,
exclusively about your then.

This could lead you to madness.

So what’s the right thing?
Should I care about?

I am not frightened,
I am just curious.

But nobody seems to believe it.

Soft footsteps echo through a starlit night
Leaves rustle underfoot, where a lone rabbit watches
Is the dark freedom born or chances few?
A cricket considers the melancholy.
Or neither? Something new?

An engine rumbles on a road a distance away,
Brittle twigs crunch under four slow wheels.
Waving goodbye, or merry greetings,
or something else, in between?
There! The golden arm of beech leaves dance in a breeze

an appreciation of the moment,
as moments, come to be.
a collection of seconds and fragments
from so many eyes
strung together,  as priceless as pearls
or an unknown prize.

will you see what the world offers in true solitude?
when it thinks you won't see what it can offer to you?
or will you pause, like the deer
to truly observe?
quiet nights, moonbeams,  and lone beech trees.
all that the universe believes we deserve.

The first Apple seed
I planted
inside hu(wo)man's (h)earth

There is just one of me,
I'm not like t(w)oo many farmers
Whom after the first
Plants every second

Let's say,
I have been grooming
the same t(h)ree ye(ar)s!
And I'm like
Still here (air)
In the third base hot spo(r)t;
Well, my last!

Let's make the quality
of my muse quantitative
and my verbal
reasonable.

Decode this mirror mirage
not seeing from a mirage mirror

If A P P L E
is a four letter code
Starting with the fourth

And ended with the fifth.
Complicated right?

You know what, just take five
And start again from "the first"

-Pastorlee