The Consistency of Water
The clouds streak an arrow of neon green,
My shadow beneath,
Quivering in silence.
The sun, glistening through the holes in the patterns,
Showers its fluorescence across the earth below,
I stand in a section divided.
The sky is not yet Crimson in nature,
No, it sits still, below the stars, but above the trees,
How I remain stationary, though I sprint,
The effort of my trudge is truly apparent,
The world beneath,
But yet I remain stumbling atop the feeble earth
For the swift Atlantic breeze caresses my skin,
And rejects the scattered clouds,
Teaching me the lessons of a life with infinite volume.
The stars in the sky may utter a name,
As to elude me,
But I step aboard the rocky earth grasping the moment’s thinning air.
For in the end the tree that drops an apple onto the ground of fertilized soil,
May only reach as high as the roots have been dug,
And only as deep as the sky may allow.
For in the end,
Within a life beneath a tree but above the scattered clouds,
Blood may run with the consistency of a raging river.
For as an apple dies,
-- Aboard the dry soil of the earth --
its blood is thick,
But the wood developed, even thicker.