Dreams still come true in the land of heart’s ash.
During the day, we all wear halos made of zen,
And the angels sing of paradise.
When the lyricist fashions art with a pen,
Too often, the intention does not ripple like the words of the wise.
To not one’s surprise, practice and talent go hand in hand.
Rose bushes line the concrete walking path.
At night, moonlight flood paradise gardens.
Holographic butterflies map eternity
With a mere flap of their wings.
All is not as it seems when it comes to these creatures.
Their features glisten in twilight times.
Their features glisten with these rhymes.
Times are a’changing,
Life needs some orchestrating.
What happened to the flair of the debonair?
Where is the sanctity of the comedic situation?
God isn’t dead but inspiration just may be.
Why isn’t most everything seen as Heaven sent?
Seems to me, this awareness lies across the river Styx.
For all misgivings, may saintly creatures repent.
Where there is paucity, let undulant beauty find its place,
For the immaculate beauty of the world will never be erased.
Here I stand, comfortable and face to face with the divine.
Devoid of anxiety and fears, I pen this final line.
Sean M. Smith