The sense in being, I am comatose,
and the fern of your words spores through me.
I await to decide my propose,
before it silently floats to sea.
A desired breeze fogged with denial,
it reckons on my continuous welcoming –
what we imagine sings tunes so vile,
while we notice what we are becoming.
Cry! I clapped through wooded fences,
requiring solution to your deafening melodies.
I foresee your lack of senses,
but forgiving – you destroyed my enemies.
Our notion defies our contrast,
why the change, why the shame?
If we don’t gain, we learn from past,
we can go on without the blame.
If a heart desires, it perseveres,
without counting the broken pieces
it restores to try and fully heal –
it destroys the lost, it regains its peace.
It is what it is
what is it?
it is what it finds
a reason to be.