Inner Bird

What is the real reason for my inner voice?
Is this ego?
Have I whispered so loudly
To all Grandfather trees
That my echo and sensations
Are no longer my own?

Has my inner bird
Whistled alone
In surrounding scenes of chaos,
And called home
Mother Hen
Whom I sit under this great canopy with?;
Oaks and Elms and Maples.

Does my voice match my vision?
Do I see sky blues,
And earthy browns,
With forest greens all around?
Or have I become muddled
Lack of colour:
Grays, black, and cement.

So Long Ago

What is the hardest thing?
A glowing orb at an unending tunnel
Flashing lights in otherwise darkness
Moments of stillness broken by reality
A whisper one still remembers
Sun so long ago
And a night that must end.

But how soft it can often hit
Like haze on a full moons glow
Orbs opening
And a bead of sweat upon thy lip.

Pain can remain
And lost within thy brow
A handful often mistaken rashly
Just as this lingering upper back kink.

Soul

What is my voice?
How does it come from within
But it is not of myself?
Would I have been wrong
To have heard it?

I bring my soul to the earth
Both by sitting upon it
By feeling it within my toes
And by listening to it
Sweet songs of assumed innocence.

But then if I stay
How long do my thoughts stray
What ebbs and flows within?
Can I settle down
Upon a dear limb
And become like green foliage?

Setting sun
Reminds me of home
So my home is where I shall roam
And here I slip back
Into my routine
Soul, still here,
Accompanying me.

Lonely

Lonely
Like this ghost
I whisper my secret stories
Unwilling to chill
My nervous twitch.
My veins have begun to bulge,
My forecast is for rain,
My tulips are still
A long cold wait away.
So this whisper caresses
My ghostly remains
Turning effortlessly
Against swirling wind,
And painting my brightness
Gray, weathered and stained.