As he stepped forth
the wind blew
cooly
fiercely, but his cloak
barely rustled, maintaining the space within
encompassed by a delusion . . . .
Then his pain pulled him close to the earth.
And he saw his reflection in a window.
His cloak: only a shirt.
The mountain: no more
than a floor. The wind: dry...still...warm
I sometimes wonder
if I am alive.
How could a man
survive such an accident?
Perhaps all these people
I encounter now
are dead as well.
And our spirits
thrive here
in this reality.
the wind blew
cooly
fiercely, but his cloak
barely rustled, maintaining the space within
encompassed by a delusion . . . .
Then his pain pulled him close to the earth.
And he saw his reflection in a window.
His cloak: only a shirt.
The mountain: no more
than a floor. The wind: dry...still...warm
I sometimes wonder
if I am alive.
How could a man
survive such an accident?
Perhaps all these people
I encounter now
are dead as well.
And our spirits
thrive here
in this reality.
posted by Sir James Eric Watkins at 10:32 PM
5 Comments:
thats a very poinitive collection of words, deeply expressed from the soul..
I like..
Peace, Kai.
Makes me look at reality a little differently, even but for a moment.
Xx
this is mysterious, it draws me in, makes me want to hear more...
Hi James, I've been busy, and when I haven't been busy I've been too tired to blog. Thought I would get back to bloggin' tonight. It was nice to read your words again.
Interesting...We are dead and our spirits thrive in this reality. I love the way you question reality.
Becky :)
Makes me think of surrendering all, and falling, and rising much lighter than before.
^_^ Cheers.
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