the trumpeter swans are calling as they migrate together
heading towards the half circle moon lit up with a crescent shadow
the lake seems eerie below like the black eyes of exposed pupils with waves as the white owl comes down from her perch and announces her prescence while an eagle with an expansive flight eats carrion off the road
the crows are my foes
the swans are my inspiration
the eagles remind me to take what's left and fly
the owl speaks of wisdom that reveals itselt when it wants to
the moon with its shadow captivates me as i take all this in the murky waters are drowning me with the pupils of thier exposed eyes looking into my soul as one rows toward me and carries a lantern with a light that is about to go out. thier is nothing but the sound of the oars the hope that this small skiff can take me down the path where the water glistens and the white owl turns her head and sees everything. while i struggle for sight in these dark places.
i trust the oarsmen who has no face it's as if i paid this man a toll
what price did i pay? i can not recall....i only know the sound of the oars lulls me into a hypnotic state and i wake up on a sandy shore and i hear the wings of the watching owl fly and there is no more night. i have woken up from this dream and there is only the pink mist and the recollection that i cried out and the oarsman saved me.
heading towards the half circle moon lit up with a crescent shadow
the lake seems eerie below like the black eyes of exposed pupils with waves as the white owl comes down from her perch and announces her prescence while an eagle with an expansive flight eats carrion off the road
the crows are my foes
the swans are my inspiration
the eagles remind me to take what's left and fly
the owl speaks of wisdom that reveals itselt when it wants to
the moon with its shadow captivates me as i take all this in the murky waters are drowning me with the pupils of thier exposed eyes looking into my soul as one rows toward me and carries a lantern with a light that is about to go out. thier is nothing but the sound of the oars the hope that this small skiff can take me down the path where the water glistens and the white owl turns her head and sees everything. while i struggle for sight in these dark places.
i trust the oarsmen who has no face it's as if i paid this man a toll
what price did i pay? i can not recall....i only know the sound of the oars lulls me into a hypnotic state and i wake up on a sandy shore and i hear the wings of the watching owl fly and there is no more night. i have woken up from this dream and there is only the pink mist and the recollection that i cried out and the oarsman saved me.
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