The children of the Cornfield link their downy arms And ring the rings from Above, flattened by mischief, Celebrated as gospel.
My quickening pulse Charts a course across dreamlands, My eyes scrape over Landscapes projected against The inside of my eyelids.
Kneeling towards the east Giving time and honesty, Giving all moments, In conversation that lingers Longer upon my tongue than a lie.
I think it’s a garden, A green lawn inviting the birds, Nesting within the branches And I think it’s vital moss With thankful palms upward.
I think it’s a wild jungle, With green hands reaching to heaven, Waving for God’s attention. As the clouds close in response He gives the ground even more life.
Step by step onward And a garden grows underfoot, Curling quick between My toes, wrapping around my Ankles and fruiting so sweet.
I stand by a gate, Which swings wildly in a wind. Rain smothers my face, Drowning me in the raging storm, Keeping me from the pathway.
A choice, I suppose, Between the real and the dreams. I choose to sleep on, To experience dreaming: In the clouds, in the visions.
So, I could roll it All back… back to the gamble That had two faces, The gamble I took out there That looked back while looking forward.
I follow the tracks Leading all the way back to The storm clouds above. What a journey! Adventure Through the veiled night of cloaked turmoil.