Every day, every place the sky
is the same but the ground beneath is not.
The roots go down and spread downwards,
they rarely rise skywards.
When float the broken bergs of clouds
over sun's vermillion tide,
every dawn, every dusk
the sky is the same
but the ground beneath is not.
Mind brings to fore my places first
before sky comes and joins,
then evening softly comes in train,
gives pointed, pain to pine with.
It's not known. It's not planned.
For who would know
stepping up from down below,
after months on flat wide roof,
that evening's thorn piercing
on tip the venomous layer of past,
on touch that numbs all pain, pleasure too?
Breathe yes I do, yet mind is lost,
in the land of dormant past,
escaped present-prison, it happened
after ages that pages blank were filled thus.
so fast, so much, so far!