The resonance of the ego
flows through the minds of men,
as a warning to a life that begins and is well lived;
the absolute thief of old age,
for it prepares them for the cold.

As the caterpillar turns into a silky cocoon,
so too does the butterfly aspire to dream;
a distant past confined within walls,
thus must mortals advance in order to return.

Though angels might return as they are;
thus, remembered thoughts shall flourish once more.

For the savant labors for the promise of eternal rest,
and the wise findeth the stone,
and the philosopher the feather and the scroll;
will nostalgic thought then find peace within Abaddon?

Shall clocks determine the time of common men?

Will the butterfly return to the dunes?

Will mortals ever hear the subtle, kind whispers of John?

Will the trees ever mourn the immortals of old?

That is the unerring ether of life.
The purpose of being, the food of the mind,
the whispers of error preserved in ink and scroll.

A poem by,

-S. I. Guzman

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Catherine J.
Catherine J.
21 days ago

Wow. Sir or Madam. What a great poem. I am extremely addicted to your poetry. Thank you!

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