Brendan O'Keeffe
Whistle
The path is long and winding
But still reveals signs of home
I have returned to this familiar abode
Yet it is not quite my own
As hardcovers close and parchment turn
I recall knowledge I have yet to learn
I admire the creek as her waters slide past
I watch accepting that it will not last
My stress has evaporated
Just for the moment at hand
While I sit in glutinous silence
Running my fingertips through this forsaken land
~
Peril
Not quite black, not quite grey
Sun is setting, fiends are scheming
I am no different
I am eagerly beaming
I am in delirium
I am awake
The roots wish to enslave me
These desolate leaves will not obey me
Wind crisp, waters brisk
I push my luck but tend to miss
The sun has vacated, surrendering his domain
Perhaps the moon will triumph in all her pain
Mankind roaring, plant life snoring
None of my surroundings are worth ignoring
The brush releases my vessel
As I witness everything I’ll ever comprehend
Evaporate before my hardened eyes