untitled

There is no song as true as that which the heart sings.
No path more unfamiliar.
No sorrow but its own.
For it will feel, and so may carry, the pains of those it loves,
yet, none can feel its potency but the owner of its key.
No heart and mind are the same.
Similar ones are found and cling to each other,
yet each has its own parcel of trinkets
and thoughts it alone holds.
No one can fully know the heart of another—
with exception to its Maker:
He who knows the hearts of all.

confused days

Evanescent frills of wispy sensation accompany a sip of lemonade.
One of those perfect days.
The ones that have an identity crisis confused between summer and fall.
The trees are just freckling with tints of cider drippings, as
I muse from my hammock of twine.
The birds are more timid this time of the year;
they bother me not.
Their fledglings eloped from the roost.
Only cardinals meet to spar over berries,
as they usher in the arrival of The Chill.