Ben River

The seasons ingrained with solitude become nothing more than beauty
A petal finds it’s way to the ground and lifts its wings to become air.

What next? Is there anything else on the cards? Always…
The cards are always changing the picture becomes old and dials the hotline
Rising to the firmament to play in the stars,

Eternal squiggles collapsing inwards, breathing out and scraping the sky,
Through the beams of blue, the synchronized patterns are to lovely for words, but I’ll write them anyway.

While pulleys and levers make their way to the next age,
Plucking ideas from our teeth, creating metaphors to sooth our brains,
while our souls know it all, it can take an age to travel the distance from heart to spark, from neuron to spirit.

Like an elastic band poised to spring back any second,

Arisen from the soup of silence,