Buds of truth

We sometimes find ourselves
lost in a conundrum of dreams

We wander
we ponder, we peruse
and then we wonder why
and how and when, etc, etc
till our minds are so full
of bullshit we begin sprouting
young saplings of thought
all kinds of new ideas and ideologies
pychologies and philosophies
poems, songs, words and dreams.

Some kind of
implosion/explosion occurs
where we become trapped
in the void of unknowing
where the needle is stuck
and the world around us lets us go
and on and on we go
believing that if we reach
we can touch the sky.

Our feet are rooted in bullshit
our hearts, skin, blood and bone
get their nourishment from that gloop
our minds
strive to make sense of the loss
and here, our souls
they are the buds of truth
waiting for us to stop
and to believe
that the only way to reach the sky
is to know we are the sky.

Crushing butterflies

Those clouds
heavy with rain
resembling pain
sit up there
and just, utter their contempt
as they shuffle along
manifesting

while down here
pain resembles snow
with its weight
pushing, tugging; silencing life

crushing butterflies
till they themselves
become misty rainbows
when the sun breaks through

clouds

to understand
to be aware
to acknowledge

clouds
those blankets
of peacefulness and violence

we reach beyond
to that shroud
whence we came

perhaps to understand freedom
perhaps to be aware of love
perhaps to acknowledge our failures

And there are those clouds
gone in a whisper
in the time it takes to write a poem