Picture: The Traveller by James Tissot
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Strings upon strings of rain
Sewn into the fabric of the night;
Mist in the trees
And feeble human lights.
A scent beyond description
Speaks of tales long gone:
The aircraft, the attendant, and the ones going home.
Each drop calls to my thirst,
I observe the urge,
Acknowledge my desire,
With eyes of curiosity
And the smile of a traveller.
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There is a fine line
Between existence and experience,
A conscious leap, as if.
Consider, if you dare to:
This is nothing but a playground.
No matter the game you’ve chosen,
You’re a viewpoint of the One,
Indestructible,
Having fun with Itself,
Through myriads of lenses,
A mosaic of frequencies.
What a beautiful show, with fireworks and all!
Such a privilege to witness the dream,
To sleep and awake.
Now,
Take a deep breath with me,
In and out.
Is there anything else?
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Herons