To go about in humble daze
To sing softly through the burning haze
And still we scream and shout
Crying out without a doubt
For the company we seem to lack
The false mechanics holding us back
My friend, my friend, my soul, my hold
On reality is rather bold
Misty mornings and falling dusk
The scent of mold and withering musk
And yet we see the colors take shape
Dancing as we only gape
At the wonders we can see
Do others notice or is it me
Lost and found, Round and round
Lines in dirt are rather flat
So all in all we better scat
To the moon, else to the sun
In our mind we always run
To seek the lasting light
That makes our soul take its flight
To go about in humble daze
To sing softly through the burning haze
The hand that guides, the one who hides
The whispering gale, the frantic tale
Words in stone we all know
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoesíaOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
