the art of seeing

This welcome sunshine
burns away thoughts of that sweet rain
which washed away that radiant sunshine
after it burnt away those morning mists
which dampened spirits of those moonilt fields
whose silence opened to breathe the stars
as they themselves woke the might of time
where it sparked imagination into being
and that life there, that simple dream
taught the soul the art of seeing
and that life there, that simple sight
opened doors to the unseen light
of this dark world, this world of
fragile alchemic blight
where the sun it shines to breathe new life
to give us hope for a world of sight

Candle evolution

I wanted to feel its creation.

It only lasted the short time
until the wax
expired
to reveal the truth of art
for art is born of darkness
in the cold reaches of mystery
where myth blends with reality
and where imagination’s atoms
shiver in perpetual flights of expired
dreams.

I wanted to understand.

An echo breathing

Magic arrives when it’s needed.

This message is ready for the few
for those souls
bereft of the beauty
we sometimes take for granted.

The beauty, of course, is not physical
but those things we feel
and emit
without and within

it is that echo
breathing, touching, vibrating
it is that echo.

Sometimes a sadness overshadows
a loneliness begins
a feeling of loss is found
and all we want is to escape
into ourselves
to close the curtains of our minds
and escape into the sorrows
of emptiness
where there is no light
no fire
no

but, where there is emptiness
there is of course, an echo.

It breathes with you and for you
for you are
that breathing echo
you are open to receive
those long searched for
alchemies of love.

Magic arrives when it’s needed
as love
because love
is already within us
within you now

breathing its echo.

Inhale, smile
and believe
in your beauty.

Love’s nightingales

Shadows do not diminish
when the sun’s bloom wilts
they merely fade into themselves
; chameleons of this butterfly world

White it shines
as it flits
landing almost
a kiss
almost an enchantment
upon solitude
upon memory

Songs, dreams and soft thoughts
these butterflies do not diminish
they are love’s nightingales
; a kind of paradise

Moonbeams
shine through
silent awakenings
to land, perhaps
upon a kiss
upon a
spark of magic
to whisper
… to paint

How is it you do not diminish
is it because your butterfly heart
echoes this fragile beat of mine
; glass, stained