Written by Brenda Mox
All things return to source. The human soul, a burning torch craves a kiss from the lips of life. Before Venus’ beauty falls into time’s persistent strife.
Sitting upon a throne of mist, the eye of the storm is a deceptive pacifist.
The soul longs, the spirit attends to hills and valleys, through mist and fog. Where a sign glistens like a demagogue in love’s transcendent garden.
Sitting now in nature’s fields,watching trees explode in feathered frills, beauty in clouds of dreams. For time to none does yield.
Waves and wind, thunder and light, spirit attends to earth’s delights, where hope marches from out the storm. Soul torch, burning bright, transformed.
Text © Brenda Mox
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