Soaring high above
Fecund Plants so lush and green
that thirst and search for
the rays of light that kiss my wings
as winds caress my fragile feathers.
The Sun, the Air, and I are one
in nature's nurturing embrace,
there is no division.
An inherent system of perfection,
the sun feeding the jade
Blades of Grass
which in turn offer themselves to the
Earthbound Inhabitants.
Those chained souls nourish the
Winged Warriors--
blessed I am to hold such rank
but flight or not, I am nothing.
Soaring high above
each Dove, Crow, or,
like I,
lowly Sparrow,
the Eagle rules us all:
Majestically fitted with golden tufts of privelege,
shining feathers imbued with insurmountable courage.
It sits, perched atop the tallest evergreen
peering down, reveling in received reverence.
Cries from the Sky wet my wings
It's azure face now veiled in darkness
as heavy tears weigh on me.
Forced to find shelter,
I huddle under the tallest Evergreen
and under the omnipresent eyes of the Eagle--
eyes filled with anger, strength, and division
as it leaves it's nest of excellence
baring terse talons unfurled with malice
and teeming to demonstrate dominion.
The Sky's cries cease as It's voice
reverberates viciously, blinding with radiance.
The flash passes, and it's countenance
is dark once again--but my eyes have been changed.
I can see the truth,
the hidden visage of the once majestic ruler.
Motionless and aflame,
stricken by heavenly light,
it's heinous, fetid features are apparent:
Charred feathers, singed with sins
Sunken eyes dully reflecting a desire for destruction--
for division.
But with death, it feeds the Sulking Scavengers
and nourishes the Hungry Soil.
Then, guided by the Wind's caress soars majestically,
on feathers anew, imbued with love,
back to the Sky
to become a warm ray of light.
The Sun, the Air, and It are one.
In nature's nurturing embrace,
there is no division.
Soft, plopping tears
drip from the tips of thin Pine Needles.
A technicolor smile arcs all around;
the vivid message of redemption from the Sky.
My first real Free-Verse poem. What do you think?
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Herban Poetry
PoetryA small but ever-growing collection of original poetry from the mind of a 19 year old pothead. This is home to a large range of thoughts, feelings, and ideas that cloud my head in poetry form.
