Arcades of Cadence


 

Cadence.jpg

The poem of the mind is a final act
An act of longing with the universe
The script was a language
And the talent was a heart

As simple as a rain drop or a snow flake
The architect was a feeling universe
The women of the time, the something else

That made us a theater and that
Brought golden souvenirs as subjects
Allows us to feel more than we could speak

The poems would suffice, for a
Life where the scene was always setting
Repeated in an light that was always evening
Sunsets that constructed a stage
That was always glowing, it was like

Words spoken to the thin rare luminous air
Of moonlight, morning mist and the face
Of a Beloved that wasn’t an audience but

An actor, maybe created by our own imagination
That was how we survived and revealed ourselves
To ourselves, and those were the feelings that

Were rightfully ours, the finding of a satisfaction
That all life feels, the poems passing through
Wheels of light to return above some mountain tops.

arcadesofcadence