Again I have to admit, I picked up something I’d started some time ago and never finished. A couple hours of quiet and it is now passing acceptable. There are always things I’d like to fix but the metaphors can’t always be rushed.

Going Away

I leave the clamor,
the electric hum,
the ceaseless whirring of glass and steel—
a maze of mindless automatons
chasing numbers, chasing screens,
chasing hours like water through sandstone.

The streets are noisy,
the sidewalks clatter of feet,
voices like distant thunder
beneath the overcast sky
where nothing is real
except the pulse of the moment.

But there is silence 
beyond the horizon,
The kind that fills the throat
and settles heavily on the chest,
like a weighted blanket,
like a song sung to the earth
in a forgotten tongue.

I walk through fields
cut like royal jade lawns
beneath the mountain’s eye.
Here, the wind speaks in riddles,
the land holds the memory
of those who lived without clocks.

The birds are not on schedule,
the river is not measured,
and the sun lingers
with patient grace
no reason to hurry.

Here,
the days are not counted,
nor the years weighed in gold,
but in the ripple of the stream,
the crackle of leaves underfoot,
the smell of earth awakened by rain.

No one can buy peace; 
no machine can manufacture it; 
It is here,
in the silence,
where I am a shadow
passing through the hours,
not bound by them.