Sunday, August 3, 2014

Barefoot Parks



As contact is the blanks the Tribe bounces banks,
the stride of the ridden in Life it's a given,
the Eventer in the good holds to no person live,
kept at the stride of silence in such hide.

To venture in the World it's chilly still a burl,
cut from quarry stone the sample of the tone,
heard in quiet surround the birds are always sound,
the Eagle flying over or the Possum eating up.

A raccoon is a night Owl I have had them visit too,
the sun brings such times as Trees are my vines,
I live in the wonder of a Land full of warmth,
not one Human Being has held my hand in scene.

These strange moments deliver the Reality of a sliver,
the deck of which my Porch does rest,
is sat with two outside chairs that Match,
different colors same design it's the mystical sign.

An Island that was said to have been the Holder of a Key side lend,
is no more than a my person containing the shore with a Board.

Writes that exclaim run trembling to the Lane,
rolling up with cuddled cup is why I love the Coffee mug,
it warms me on chilly days that Humanity has seen fit to colder.

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