The Wind did Write

Though the wind did sigh

At the sound of thunders wrath

Knowing— ahead the sky—

Would soon become its path—

Words from the ground below

Carried by birds towards the air

From the time reaped— to then sow

From the times made unaware—

Not without a song of memory

Recollection of the times before—

The ones divided— when silently

Our souls did ever outpour—

Though— the thunder— but a sign

Unto the roaring wind— to rise again

From its slumber-some time—

From both its ink and pen—

To the ground— the wind did write

A note— signed— sincerely yours—

Though it was thunder with its might—

That delivered it with roars—

By a Signature Made of Song

Though my words to the ground do run

Awakening— all that walks upon—

As they find themselves beneath the sun—

To whom their souls are drawn—

Within this wonder— this warmth— they find

Listening to the birds— sing on

An ode is sang and between them signed

By a signature made of song—

O the sun that enlightens me—

Nearing my time lent here—

My firsts— my lasts— be made truly

Nothing more— or— less sincere

For by letter— that is by chance—

Random not— unknown—

For if I gaze and awkwardly glance—

Upon your golden throne—

For upon my mind— engraved

A signature— by name—

That is the throne— of who are saved

And they who rightfully claimed—

There’s a Song I used to Play

There’s a song I used to play—

Though some words I may not remember

Perhaps— then—I’ll try to say

Them— once, twice and together—

Golden was the time afore

As memory now serves me right—

That is to say— the days that were before

Followed me through the night—

Measured across from fire to sea

My eyes did light the way—

Indeed— it was the sky that carried me

Back towards yesterday—

The wind had chilled my feet below

Though— stillness I didn’t find

Yes— that’s what did foreshadow

The agreement that I had signed

The signature that was stamped

That was to say in ink—

Was one that my feet had mapped—

Out— the heads of those who think—