I would argue that life is most
rife when all is still, because
quiet itself can be such a thrill —
take that moment when your
heartbeat skips, or in the
shuddering seconds of
a passing eclipse, like when
a forgotten dream settles
in splendidly and you’re
left suspended
in serenity.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Oh, way of twisting root,
snarling beneath my feet,
serpentine it looped the vine
that caught me underneath.
Oh, way of groaning bridge,
creaking across the glen,
it mumbled as I tumbled
from the here until the then.
Oh, way of weary drifter,
carving through the cliffs,
long the road and strong I strode
on legs so sore and stiff.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 