A Mother's Son.
Preserve the foundations as they spread.
At first a surging, then it went dead.
Sand and beach rolled, a wild surf freed.
But which is greater. The Earth? Or the need?
The light in men fail while mystery remains.
Around a circle in the heavens that reclaims.
Perhaps its known; not withholding to announce.
Fruits are profitable, there only need be an ounce.
The wood within can always be counted to run.
I'll do what others won't, for I'm a mothers son.
He who governs it; will return to obtain and yet,
some feet only enjoy standing fast when they're wet.
So preserve the window pane as you gaze on out.
It's that looking glass within that goes without.
Harmonize it in song, then spread it abroad.
Nature is full of thorns and this isn't all.
Love is unconditional, it forgives and it should.
While tree's uprooted remain, there still only wood.
A foreigner, a stranger, or so you're often told.
The days are shorter as that cold wind blows.
A clear glance is evident to those that barely run.
Again I'll do what I must, for I'm a mothers son.
So look more closely at what has now been done.
For there is nothing new under the foundations sun.
A.o.R.
