Dipping his eye quill

into the blue ink of the sky,

he wrote..

His words spoke of

the silent, weathered hills

that formed the bedrock of his being,

and the dreams he’d been hiding

that had, since, taken wing..

The wild purple orchids

that are seeded into his soul,

of the breeze he’d fed on

that had made him whole..

The heaven lake

that ran in each blue-green vein,

The sights that he saw

after which, he was never the same..

He’d forgotten how to interpret

the sights now simply flowed within,

he’d forgotten how to finish

and how to begin..

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