Muses

To and fro goes the way, Shall a heart celebrate those who would remain in the journey that heals? They sat there shelling peas fingers green with life at the end of the restaurant, And a truth reveals itself through the rebirth of an ancient song, it starts to have more and more directions it can in, seemingly, A passion arises like an echo mired through time itself, like alone in the wilderness, Yelling out: "Who's idea was this?" Both of ours I think, But it really doesn't matter, For the spirits serenades a heart and the dream is sacred to those who understand, And it will be up to the last man, or the last woman to write the first poem, Lessons to those who are patient, Magic that is yet to be revealed in harmony a season to be touched, And a season to be touched by a harmony, Where does the world want to go today? And what does the world need to know? To touch the spirit that resides in itself, To declare the joy, Unanimous to the truth, Cold doesn't enter to it, Fool! Don't you know, You are walking on a hot bed of coals? Perhaps, But that is the risk you are taking, But the honor shall in time be held in regard formidable in its undertaking, I have a place kept safe for me in nothing, A trust is to be shared prime in its fullness, Complete to a touch sacred in a heart, Flags fluttering in the breeze of my mind armies disappearing into the planes and wandering there 'til the end of time. Sept. 23, 1997 By: B.E. Whitehorn & Roger A. Tennaiz Written December 24th, 2001 © on Jun 07 2002 05:42 AM PST, Billy E. Whitehorn    contemporary • collaboration