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An ending to the next song
Mastery is a porcess that,
while unnerving as the storm-scented breath
of a Western wind,
holds us to a promise:
that we might become our angels and
guard our own hearts into their beating.
Because drums don't change their rhythm
into the night
like each is an ending to the next song.
And words don't change their meaning
into the truth
like each is a prelude to the next beauty.
Everything IS and while I live,
I am and I am not.
And all the time
time is ticking.
Slowly I'm slipping into a summer that's
always brighter,
always follows our dimmest winter.
Because all that changes are the eyes
with which we behold ourselves as a beholder,
which sees
and is never seen.
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