tropic of cancer or latitude in attitude
warmths stirs within the volcanic heart
sometimes the burnt ashes of memories
that should have remained settled mix
with the fluid pounding of emotional unrest
and even with attempted restraint there is
no stopping the natural course of what will be
and the sky is dulled with the words that could
not be choked back and swallowed yet again...
they just want to be heard - but when the other
mountains of cold stone refuse to listen
attention must be, should be, has to be drawn -
even if only with chalk that will once again be
erased with the tears of misunderstanding
so we can go back to our different coastlines
and mubble at how unfair the other is, was, can be.
how can two siblings be so different?
each at one point wanting what the other has -
and yet when stepping back are quite grateful
for who and what they have become...
no sense in pointing fingers unless you really
are ready, willing and able to actually bend
and lend that hand extended from your arm...
let the dragon sleep - that storm that will come
there will be no stopping it, nature only provides
the instruments it is the players who beat the drums,
blow the horns, and pluck all the strings so that the sky
is either clear with balmy and soothing goodness or
well we all know that or, the oar that thrashes in the
tumultuous sea that blinds common sense and leaves
us wanting what we could never have had...
or at least that is what we sometimes think.
©JP/davh
Wow! A wonderful write! Thanks so much!
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