For once there was a perfect time, filled with perfect, in perfect rhyme.
The laze of man, of thing and things and all the emptiness that human brings
Met with perfect, at the door, dropped it’s bag and cried no more.
Yet human man he soon forgot, built his castle, learned to rot.
Forgot that perfect, held his hand, tolled the roads, ploughed the land.
Then one day when man was old, a moment touched, a silence hold.
Of a perfect day, not noticed then, cared then less, cared not again.
It’s that call that calls him now.
Frets the beads, upon his brow.
…….perfect came and perfect went
A perfect moment, no man has spent
For perfect is as perfect be, perfect touch, as perfect see.
Yes perfect called, this man missed thee
For perfect shouts, so silently.
Perfect kissed with perfect breath
Then perfect looked,
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Credits: poem @ justme; Image: CatrinPhoto; All rights reserved.
Liberation is not the formation of words or rhetoric but the embracing of silence. That perfect silence, so available it is ignored for its dullness of being. Yet grab its breath, hold it hand and fill thy souls, for simple is as simple needs and simple sacrifice, stands and bleeds. Simple sits so wild and free, yet simple cares, yes it cares, so silently.