On the top of the hill stood the mast.
It was silver and sleek.
At its head flew a flag.
Gulls nestled at its feet.

“Outrageous!” it cried
To the sea in the bay.
“No time to talk
And less time to pray.”

Gather ye round to the mast on the hill
While the wind whips your hair
And flips you at will.
To the bay, where they circle and beg you for more
At the mast there is never, no night and no shore.
No way to step over and out to the sun.
No time to let go of our time emptied fun.

I am the quiet.
In movements I tell stories.
Within and without.
Sleep is the leveler.
Its jewel is the dream.

My dreams are like diamonds.
Rough shapely stones.
Hewn from basalt and caught up in my carbon.
I give them away.

My dreams are like diamonds.
Sharp, shining songs of dogs in the night.
Come with me and listen.
Buckle up for the flight.


About shanokee

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