Words are crafted with deliberate persistence
By the gentle calligraphy of the sighing autumn winds.
As they infiltrate my being,
A melody of desperate realization
Resonates through the whispers that hum a song to all who listen.
Hear it now and renewal comes:
My truth is your truth is their truth,
We just need to learn to live it.
I see the fear of comprehension
And know it lurks behind my eyes.
But I inhale, I embrace
That what I fear is what I need:
We each are one and can live as such.
And I know that the prophecy of this autumn song
Will not come to pass if I don’t start to live it.
I love my truth, I honor yours,
Yet the calligraphic winds still insist we move:
Time has not passed for the raising of the hopeful voice.
To those who listen, the song still plays:
Not a sinner does one sin make,
So I dust my words on this insistent gust:
Love lies not in consensus,
Nor peace in subjectivity.
We wait not for another to rise above the anguish,
We wait to rise above ourselves.
And if none will make the choice
To know that truth is not perception,
I will use the voice inside of me
To transcribe the song that the wind
Will never cease singing.
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