
The Hat is fit by heads, a tool of weighty stuff
Mighty high and mystical
power placed upon.
It is not stuck forever there but easily retired
Thoughts expand the wearing soul
The Hat is lifted off.
The Hat is fit by heads, a tool of weighty stuff
Mighty high and mystical
power placed upon.
It is not stuck forever there but easily retired
Thoughts expand the wearing soul
The Hat is lifted off.
thumbprints press hard
on the outer part to shape shift being
into a failed construct
facade
hiding a soul looking for the light behind
to dispel shadows and such
searching for life beyond the creep of forced ideals
into everlasting peace
Lighting the path beyond,
the moon leans toward a fate larger than death,
the eastern sun bullied by looming clouds of day.
Life speaks daily in the rise and fall–
hope wrapped in even the darkest morn.
It’s that time of life when gentle and innocence fall
the eyes of the deer go dark
while the heart of sporting egos reign.
We all feel broken a bit
and generations suffer generations.
As foot prints in the snow crush the buds beneath
we all stay hungry for peace.