Author: Michael Angelo

The world seemed so jovial at that moment:
when every tangle
of gold grass was a joke dangling
from flapping tips.

Every tree jiggled
fat belly secrets
of beautiful things hiding
in the high fever heat.

I laughed so verdantly,
bemused as to why the world
had ever seemed so dull and dark.

Before I knew it though,
the stars had risen,
and in their frozen light
loomed that familiar
sterile cold.

The great joy of life
is knowing
that at the end of it all
you will have felt the warmth of the Sun
with a body and mind made of Sun.

The lotus that sits within the pond that is itself.

I am a man that often gives himself
to illusion.

At times, it is easier to ignore
the tree,
and focus on the plastic artifices.

The truth of the tree,
its aging breaking bark,
can be too much for this heart.

However, the true poison
is fear.

One is meant to feel,
with every stretch and compression.

Blood must flow
to carry the minerals, twigs, and ashes of life.

If the blood runs cold, then it runs cold,
and one must shiver.

And if the blood burns hot, then it burns hot,
and one must sweat.

To be real
is to be body, mind, and spirit.

The whole of my being
cascades like leaves declaring
the wind’s undeniable existence.