I can feel it,
through me,
and above,
then by,
on its track,
underneath,
oh yeah,
this is what,
you’re talking about,
moving along,
for your direction,
always,
traveling without regrets.
Got to somehow not remember,
yet difficult when it’s a part of me,
even though all I have really done,
is lessen its degree to a point,
cut past those costly dreams,
the waiting over shocking paths,
finally delivered as deathly still,
wedged tight inside a pickle barrel.
Soaring this high,
no barriers,
across my height and depth,
whether atop or below,
of course you own everything,
while I’m only borrowing now,
climbing that hidden staircase,
ready to make up each step at a time,
beyond the sun,
where it’s safe and rewarding,
tossing doubt in place of just certainty,
hands softly gripping between us,
resting simply during our hard work.
Sharwrong's Song 