He Moved Himself

And so he moved
for movement seemed to be prerequisite.
Purposeless, he drifted through
the days of his demise, and thus
he compromised the very best of what he was,
in order to fit in within a greater crowd
of unresolved and unresolving
(not to mention detrimental),
idiosyncratic meaningless.

Until his soul began to speak
in words that cannot keep themselves enclosed;
and he rose in increments each time he listened,
unsettling the ones that he was closest to
in a vagary of newness still expanding;
as he drifted, disembodied,
through those realms invisible.
Touching close, the center felt
its way into his life.

Unable to sleep, still he dreamed;
and in that moment,
just before the sun is really seen,
long grass turned gold
by just a touch of burning lightís embrace;
and he knew then the reality
of dreams that bring the soul of earth
forever into life in cyclic motion.

He became one blade of grass,
enduring dry and hot and moist and cold,
as meaning flowed through everything;
for the best of the best
perseveres beyond our pain -
not for loss or gain - but for the freedom
of one thrill of life, forever burned
to memories of soul-struck bliss.
Immortalized, beyond all time,
within the mind of presentís past,
to live into the future of us all . . .

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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