Dragon

Is this how the dragon feels? Contained within her cage? And when she leaves her lair she becomes the black dot moving throughout the land?
Is this how the dragon feels? Cut off from her home. Not daring to go out for misery's disgrace amongst the once familiar land?
Is this how the dragon feels? At once completely whole, now a part onto herself, only in her mind.
Is this how the dragon feels? The frustrated passion for life quelched under a misunderstanding both personal and trivial, aware that if clarity could only be known then the world would again turn into the fields of sun covered dew?
This is how I feel. I feel as the dragon feels.
When I wake up in the morning, will the world be set right? Will the vision be whole? Or will I find myself again in my cave of damp and dark? Will I find myself again as I am today?

Why, says the butterfly to the flower, do you taunt me so?
Why do you use your beauty and your grace against me
only to help you grow?
Why should you use my graceful legs and fluttering wings
to further your intentions?
Why should your beauty only be used
to further your own aspirations?

And so responded the flower:
Does the earth ask the sun why all it does is give?
Do the fish ask the stream if in it they can live?
If all the world did just one thing--to look out for itself,
Then what of beauty, glory and goodness would be for us that's left?

I am

While you are a polished amethyst, I am an uncut diamond.
While you are a farmer's fresh plowed field, I am the open hills.
While you are a river and a lush, green bank, I am the ocean and her embracing beach.

So while you fit perfectly into the life that you have chosen--while you may look to all the world to have the answers--the peace and serenity of a choice existence, just remember that life is more complex than that and the potential that I have within me is far greater than any facet can shine, any field can reap or any stream can travel. Though my edges may be unhewn, my terrain rocky and my waves may crash, of me there is no counterfeit to be made, no fence to bind and no dam to stop.

Does tomorrow shine
with the promise of today?
Or does a promise
lack the truth which
would prove the
rising of the sun
in the west rather than
its eastern round?
What is promise but words
of intention which may
or may not
be found in reality's base?
What are words but meaning?
And what is meaning but
intent to be?
Which word will be found worthy
and true
and form intent
into being?

Hope is
for another day
the treasure of tomorrow.
Take me back
to the place
where poetry ruled
my life.
Where music played
and my heart knew
only warm sun.
Take me back
to that time
before clarity dawned.
Before the leaves
turned cold
and Mother Earth insisted
on her continuous change.
Speak to me
once
of love
and of life.
Whisper these words today.
For today
I wait
in wondering awe
waiting for the dawn
to cede grey.

Hiding behind glass panels
as you speak the words
of hidden irony--
The meanings of which
wish could turn to truth.
You find yourself wishing
for the self that you are in that
instant when the sun
hits the glass and you see your
brightened expression
illuminated by its rays
before darkness leaves you
again in the solitary openness of
your blindness--
the beauty so close and yet
untouchable.

A dream that's spent
On Sunset's morrow
Is forever lost in time.
For words and thoughts
Are Life's flesh arts
But action is divine.