On the Day of Patrick Swayze's Death
 
Streaks of pink and blue vibrant
behind wispy, grayish clouds.

The pond ripples in the sky
sprinkling iridescent in the light
as the orange burning fades.

The hazy blue that is the night lays
itself upon the land constant as a
stubborn man.

Whisper, the tired marks of animals
in the field peddling passed the threshold
where we stand, a balance conscious,
a sacred gift.

Experience given in the light for learning
and building respective ways.

Life lived not to regret it. It is a choice
to be made.



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Muse, I acknowledge thee. 


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