The Arrow and the Bow

If ever there was a plan, a standing route in which ports of access and planes of travel could sit together and compliment; to fortify, to protect, and to absolve, the ground would shift and shake and regard to the heart of the sky, flying alone towards the background, streaming and listening, arching and praying

The trees would bow and stretch together with an endless smile of infinity, and the rivers and fields would slam into one another, working in concert, converging all their efforts to truly roll

If there ever was a golden freeway designed by gods, an obvious road marked and pointed to, highlighted in giant orange and yellow lines 'THIS WAS THE WAY TO GO', the Summer and Winter would cease punishment and commence prayer and eternal gift giving as Spring, The Time of Heavenbound Rain and Autumn, The Harvest of Time Allotted

If ever we saw the map, we would take off our shoes and slow down in our stillness, eternally preferring the grass to the concrete, and looking always forward and up instead of diagonally backwards, muttering thanks in our sleep and shouting forgiveness in our wake

How not to count the shadows on the wall and assume they are they realized nature of the day's specters
Why shouldn't we hold the ghost of the Land of the Last Dying Artist as a generation's Valhalla

The shards of love and light point us in the direction of a morning, a new month's skin settling in and bracing for a life of becoming leather, and regardless of that caustic hesitation to embrace true night, there is trust and truth in twilight; there is patience in the sun, there is fresh water and hope in a time with true loves, and the future and past sit before us and beside us simultaneously, heating our heart and warming the hands of the coldest inhabitants on this clear globe