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The cool breeze ran through my hair as I thought. The moonlight brought a tear to my eye as I remember past events. The rocks hold the mold that signifies age, Which I have learned to handle. The grass green of Summer, the trees dead of Fall. The clouds live of Spring, the moon lonely as Winter. Picture perfect, and three worlds in all. There is no place quite like this one. Rolling hills bring the news of A new flower of the countryside. The meadow speaks of the coming danger, But Is danger really such a bad thing? The water cool and clear, my own little pond. Here I can think about anything, Here I feel comfortable. The gentle breeze blows on the calm waters, Making them seem more temptatious as a whole. This is my pond, I named it. The pond is named Stephanie. But one day I step into the clear waters, And It's chilly and cold. Indifferent to me for Some odd reason I can not understand. Is love really a bind, or Is it something that tears friends apart? So I walk away from the water. The Lonely moon lowers, forming a new day. For the first time in forever, I Have found light. But light may not always be found in something as Trivial as beauty. My light is a blade of grass. A Flower, so beautiful, but the thorn pricks. Water, So welcoming, till the chilly winter comes. A Blade of grass, so misunderstood and looked over. I love this blade of grass. It Has a name: Lorig. But everything must come to And end, or does it? The Blade of grass died, I abondoned it. I Left that perfect place, for such a long time. Time, Why do we limit ourselves with something so Trivial? Grass regrew that Spring. Lorig returned to me, anew. But This time the love the grass felt was only for Friendship. Why do we have friends? Friends Use, decieve, and trick you. Wait, this was the Pond and rocks. The grass never did that But I still love the grass. Grass is Always there to walk on and roll in. Never Leaving you're feet, such a faithful Friend. Friends. We have only few real ones In our life. Grass will grow, Lakes will chill, Rocks will grow mold, and Moons will fall. But it will all be there Tomorrow, or perhaps Always. ~Ben Robertson - 1999~ |