Land of Little Transition

The thoughts that Gabriel had gathered
left before the fall of a feather.
Seperated from the wings which heaven
rained down to the land which has lasted,
what could not be forgotten?
the feeling guessed at; some perpendicular matter entrapment.
spread along thriry-three degrees of seperation
an inclination of a fire which swelled was only ice retracted,
a reflection of an heir gathered at the threshold of a well -
looking down on the concourse of all that has been built on sand.

a
FIRE
a
FIRE
to
RESTORE all the unimpassioned days

i spot the land of the evergreens.
numerous spread roots under earth and feet.
the snow is all around and the river frozen fast;
but the birds, they shall come again.

the northern nests will echo sound
As the land laments over cycles found
an enheritment: riches made not of skin,
the moon to light the way from your darkened sorrow
and an eagle planted shall be the heros boots on wings of fire

the winter has gathered
i've been along but not along those lines
no subtle tickets stamped and ridden.
only a calm lusting for living and preparing well

here the parades pass with no fanfare
only in wonder of amazement of a man who made liars
of those who said he could not fathom such wonders
or keep pace while within such sorrow

deep below and dug around
he has found the firey entrapment to untwine his wire;
to be humble and know only that he must do what he was told,
pleasure in briars - a fitting settlement

a story of survival, a story of humanity, a story of precident
on the plains, he shall not rob you of your good worth
fleeting angels dream - who is to say you can not illuminate
the dark days of no hue, those times of black and truths

but the story ends not with self, however it may begin in isolation

the
ICE
the
ICE
to restore what you meant to say

too articulate for my benefit
all sentances set upon a stone statement
a blackend end and a recource bound
a fallen feather without an echo'd sound

none now stand for pride
all wait for anothers hand
an ending of an age, an ending of a stair, a building of our monument
the ending of the lengths for strands of hair;
all shortene'd to make you ripe when all you feel is bare

too sweeten'd for these days or too bitter for the years
a glue made from roots, a confess for the crystals but nothing to say of glass.
alone, faithless, bruises soon yield to cracks
- It may come when looking back:
A notwithstanding loop which can not be dodged or cured or tracked.

a mirror to the otherside never looks the same way twice
And the story ends not with self, however it may begin in isolation