Aimless Ambling

X. Music filles the air         and voices lay under it Subtle flashes blink off and on         hardly noticed by the mass                 (Engrossed in itself)                         unaware of the sun shining brightly through the clouds.

IX. Who knows the voice of the wind or the face of the night sky Do they also know the language its speaks or see the tired lines on its face?

VIII. Poetry is life in a capsule insulated from time it grows Once freed, it spreads like fog obscuring Now Covering everything in times gone by times to come Times we wish were now or know and hope will never come Reality so distilled would shock our systems And so, we are contented to have but a taste of what we would have/would have not Be now.