Rising with the tide of the seasonal flow.
As it bellows, so do we follow, to the deep below.
A passage of rites, so to speak, to rise ever so high if only slip suddenly.
Further it yearns and turns, and we are in the midst,
Of a trick in the form of change,
As always, history manifests something amiss.
Yet this is the present, and it must be understood as such.
Without a hush and certainly no rush, understand what it is that you trust.
What you aspire to in your sleep, these dreams that make you speak,
Your reality into existence, hindrance and then persistence,
Yet that may be the point, certainly the subject,
That we always seem to detect, within our hearts if we don’t feign neglect,
It’s the usual suspect, a point of reckoning,
That we must certainly respect.
Now, possibly our minds will gleam, yet only if we remain obscene,
For the original material only is complete,
When we rectify what must be at last retrieved.
Only our souls know what road must be followed into the great mystery,
As this this solid transparency never ceases to unfold endlessly.