Call it what you may but a thousand rose buds would be lost on you if refuse to slow down and breathe in the aroma that awaits you in the aggregate that follows. Such text can be read in seconds, a fleeting puddle in desert heat, but as a poem an eternity of beautiful forevers. For the love of goodness rest at each line for as long as it takes to feel the imagery alter your inner atmosphere, then merge into the next line (layer) as though it will be your last, let each notion of thought ease together into one coherent whole.
Seated here for some time
Neither planning or remembering
Then an urge comes forth
A desire to ask a vital question
What is this?
You know… this?
This … here?
To discover, uncover but a million to one
To acquire everything under the sun
But once we cut through this … the clouds?
Ah, there it is
The mind arrives
A vigil of sorts
Silent as night in the middle of nowhere
Alone in the alone
What bliss … such is this.
By Jason Youngman
Winter of 2019