creation

How infinite the mind of the One,
laden with latent possibility
dormant in the microcosm of
the "me" struggling stupidly
to comprehend
the simple complexity
of the continuum of
constant and cohesive
creation.

strings

He pulls my strings
and I dance and sing
a melody born of dreams
and it matters not
if what he says is true
for the way he pulls
upon these cords
very few can do.

tied

I watch the wind
whip passion through the trees,
and whispering to my heart
I promise to better tend
to the garden blooming within,
to daily inspect the strength of string
that’s tied from it,
to you.