Bonds are formed through
steel determination.
When we witness an ebony cub,
become a full fledged princess.
When a young lion has a mouth that roars,
and simutaineously a heart that purrs.
Is that not the true definition of a prince ?
I remember vividly from bible study
the shepherd who watches the flock,
does not lament the collective that stays.
But the one who strays ?
Will they find each other?
Perhaps..perhaps..
For when I look from my vantage point,
I see no bridges burned.
Merely crossed.
And ultimately the will is the way,
that follows the directions of the soul.
When a midnite love song can be heard,
over the vastness of far northern climes.
When we bless the ankh,
and refuse to submit to rage.
When we do not turn the page,
but recall the process that lead us
to this chapter.
All around us we see the results of words spoken.
Do we take the time to listen
to words not spoken?
Perhaps..perhaps..
A Madd Writah is not insane,
merely inflamed.
By a society that willingly
will submit to anarchy,
rather than harmony.
And yes he knows when the conflagration
within his soul,
is burning out of control.
He can staunch his inner flame
in the rain.
What is rain ? But natures true measure of equality.
Does it not rain upon the just and the unjust,
not just us?
But those we trust,
and those we exchange a pleasantry with
from across the bridge.
A wheel is never locked if the cycle of life
is based on love.
I know this to be true.
For just last night, I heard the sultry blaze
of a jazzy tune.
And it warmed my heart.
Insulating me from the reality
of my real existence.
Love can be Love 365 days a year.
But only if we hear
words not spoken.
For when kindred souls speak,
no words need be uttered.
We are Lyfe Poets are we not?
We imagine.
We image.
We capture.
We confess.
With perfection being an illusion,
Yes we admire an Indian Princess,
as she confides to the muse.
To illumintate the hearts of men.
Heart Spoken.
No mere token.
But real as pain.
And soothing as a night in the rain.
Admiring the sparks, as microphones
sizzle and blaze.
Not from hate spewed,
but from the force of the muse.
Isn't it wonderful when we discover a Hot Babe,
is also the owner of a warm and gracious heart?
When a man living in a country,
torn apart by hate,
can put his reputation at stake?
To plead for what we all believe
to be true.
That ultimately it is not words spoken,
that force us individually to cross a bridge.
But the words not spoken,
that ensure that bridge is not burned.
And one day we shall return.
As one.
Perhaps..perhaps..
This is not a war.
I know of inner city wars,
of crack crusades with no victor.
This is not a battle.
I know of battles.
When beneficence is kept under house arrest,
no..this is an interlude.
Or a prelude
to a kiss.
Or a blowing of a kiss upon the winds,
as we look across the bridge.
This is love,
and when love is at odds with love,
how many people does it take to heal the divide,
and ensure the family continues to ride?
When and if the time comes
2 is enough
dont you agree
family?

All Poetry by D.Greaves/Darwin Greaves by D.Greaves-Darwin Greaves is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at dgreaves.posterous.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://dgreaves.posterous.com/pages/dgreaves-tos