Bound to Many

There’s a soft gentle breeze,

Stirring in the trees,

Like dusk,

Smells the cool morning before it’s first taste.

 

So the man comes wondering,

Quietly pondering,

A shadow,

Reaching out from beneath his master,

 

Gentle, my friend,

We are the same,

As the birds of the earth,

The  heat,

The rain,

 

In dusk, in dawn,

As the light ebbs and groans,

As moments of ourselves wax and wain with daylight’s age,

 

We are all the same,

To smell the breath of the morning,

Our shadows drawn to the tide of the light,

We are bound to it,

Our moods only moments leashed to the senses,

Bound to patterns that seem so senseless,

 

But bound,

Like the dew to the morn’

Like the shadow to the man,

And all,

Bound together,

Like the comings of a day.

Bound,

No doubt.

 

 

 

 

 

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