the fern wherever in the forrest grows
yet yearns to be,
where of that, of waterfalls.
bird that flies in mystical skies,
yet yearns to walk on water.
the way that the sun sets in memory's eyes,
yet yearns to be
more prominently as an earth rise.
the trees of a jungle's stand,
yet yearn to be
presenting as an ocean surge.
the wind that town-travels as a quippy lisp,
yet yearns to be
a mountaintop of a choir's song.
the hands that idly fidget through the days,
yet yearn to be
the petting zoo of earth's rekindling touch.
the eyes of many,
as if novels are the road traveled,
yet yearn to bathe
in tears of joy, sent soul forward.
the leaves that live for the season of their fall,
yet yearn to be of then,
as longing letters sent back homeward.
the whispers of the mind
that never make it to the throat,
yet yearn to be
celestials coming from
the silence of their gods within.
for that which yearns,
wants to become,
as the creator of their means . . .
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