go hardy

I am the solitary tree,

in the orchard of the my innermosts,

that uses daily breezes

to sing along with inward melodies, 

to a lonely sky above my solitary.

I have a heart-song,

with no spoken lyrics.

I feel acoustic sounds

that cannot be mouth-shaped into words.

I have cotton candy experiences,

made out of cacophony's delight.

I make apparent confusion,

into spider webs of sight-full symmetry.

the feeling I get from words,

sometimes gives me emotional splinters, 

composed of what was actually said.

I have intermittently discovered,

that how I think,

can never come to justify,

the makings of how I feel.

for common sense allows me,

to weave articles of relevance

but not to first-impulse paint 

from the depths of what inspires me.

it seems that I am made of amenable, 

that is ever several breaths,

away from self as serenity.

I sensibly know where to look,

but I am privately waiting 

for a 'coming' to find me.

my mind is facets of reflecting light,

from a cultivated garden 

of attention-streams. 

I address my awareness 

in the habits of orderliness,

waiting for the unexpected,

to give me an internal permission,

that somehow would set me windswept free.

I am a woven canvas of a being,

wanting for the oils of life upon me,

to liquify into the essentials 

of a watercolor-me.

I have the emotional permission 

of breezy days

and yet my closeted mind creates a sense 

of the postures of purposeful.

for I live in the camouflage of sensibility

and yet, am privately emotional 

for discovery,

as for the buoyancy, 

for passing through my day.

upon entering each moment,

I generally know, 

for the lay of all of the landmarks' facings.

I would love to leave 

the think of my crossword undone,

primarily because I am either mindfully out 

of conditional leads, 

or too much of steadfast ink.

I enjoy warm foods,

as if flannel for my bodily needs.

I have for myself,

a gait of paced liberty.

there are more chapters of myself 

to be read upon

and under my breath, 

to privately comprehend.

for self-whisper is 

my personal self-dialogue style.

I can easily embrace projects

as if they were all people occupied.

yet restful does not ever complete me.

my nectar-seek is for the evaporative.

I would live in other dimensions,

if the point was to become truly satisfied.

for each moment of my mindfulness,

seems mentally to be preoccupied,

as if I am the self, aware 

that they, as thoughts,

all live as themselves, upstairs

and are generally unaware 

of my downstairs emotional presence.

I common sense my appearance,

as if it is almost a disguise.

if there is such a thing

as a leap of faith,

I then only shallow-breath breathes of it.

I am cryptic symptoms of myself,

but mirror-time gets me no clear answers.

I can gaze at an hourglass in passing

and identify with these individual grains, 

as for the way they become prominent 

and then ever so silently slip away.

the sight 

of a large curvaceous plume feather,

truly relaxes my sense of being.

go hardy, 

feels like my book, cover to book-cover.

but I think like a waterfall reading down,

every cryptic page, 

to possibly enigmatic on the next.

but what I truly feel, 

takes me well beyond, 

what meaning of my life

has to apparently mindfully offer . . .