Perspective

The forest is but trees.

Nobody forgets the forest for the trees.
The forest hides, in plain sight
And it’s not our eyes that conspire
Nor our mind, with the trees;
It’s the light.
Nowhere to go but straight,
The light leads us straight to something.
From above, the forest is but leaves,
Rustling in the wind,
Dancing to the chaos of something somewhere;
From within, it’s a lot of grass, trunks,
And the light trickling from above,
Not green, it’s dark.
From the outside, it is trees,
A lot of trees.
We all see it; we all have a picture
Of what the woods are.
They are indeed dark and deep
And probably lovely too;
But the picture changes,
How did we see the same thing,
And feel it differently;
Blame the light.
But the light never means it,
They have no malice,
It’s our malice that seals
Malice onto inanimate things.
To see something is to look straight into its heart.
But, that is seldom possible.
To see the woods for what she is,
I know I can’t just be looking at it myself,
I have to see it, through other eyes,
Many, many paths for the light to reach me.
But I always remember, there are mirages,
The air tricks the light sometimes.
In the sea of confusion,
I need to know how to look, but
There is no correct perspective;
There is reality though.
There is a full version of reality,
Hidden among the sights,
Yielding to but the tenacious,
The poets ready to hear the song.
Poetry is, after all, putting the obvious
Into the limelight, in a different light.

Heavens

I didn't have anyone
To tell me this,
As a child I never heard
That dying would take you to the heavens,
To that place between the stars
In your rightful place in the cosmos.
My father, a storyteller,
Had no stories of the heavens.
And for me, the night sky
Was a boring black with
Uneven spots of unstable lights.
But I looked up, I have no clue when,
And saw that most that spots are stars.
Stars like the sun, bigger than the sun
And a million times bright.
Gases crushed by their own weight,
Boiling beyond vapor,
Turning themselves into another
And the night sky into a Van Gogh dream.
My dreams take me there,
And my imagination is my fuel.
But just not any kind of imagination,
The one with respect to the grandeur of truth.

They lead me to the skies...
And they lead me away from death.