The Restless Heart

For a time this heart will be still
Content with the way things are
To see the days pass by
Much the same as before
To smile and enjoy
The known paths of life
But a day will come
When the old paths seem dull
And the day lingers without pleasure
Ever more the heart will turn
To the east and the west
Searching for something else
To the north and south
Wondering what lies ahead
Thus the heart will grow weary
With the paths of old
Unhappy with its own content
Then the heart will search out
Paths it has not tread
To forge where no one else has
Thus the world becomes known
And science mastered
And history is made
By the restless heart

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Sleeping Hours

Day has ended
Night has fallen
The thunder of the day
Gives way to the subtle of the night
Beasts, great and small
Make their way through the night
Though man slumbers unaware

Yet here I lay
Wide awake
Unable to sleep
My mind rushes and rushes
Where the people sleep
I lie awake
Where the people rest
My soul stirs uneasily

Night has fallen
And my soul wanders
Across the landscape of my mind
There I see myself
My worries appear as mountains
My fears as canyons
My hopes as distant fields

Though all around me
The shadows of my fears
Rise and close in
Yet far above me
The stars of my hope
Shine far above me
A hidden hope of mine

Morning Star

The night is old
And the air is cold
A gentle wind
Stirs the treetops
I shiver in the breeze
As I leave for work

As I prepare to leave
I hear a whisper among the leaves
Among the trees and the weeds
I turn and look to see
What could be hidden among the green
But I see nothing in the darkness

Yet in my heart I can hear
A voiceless whisper
Beckoning me to come near
To leave the town behind
To wander beneath sky and bough
To vanish amongs the woods

I smile at the nearby woods
For though my heart lies among trees
My path wanders in concrete canyons
For though my feet tread on false stone
My heart wanders in the woods
Among the ash and oak

The Writer’s Tale

When a writer writes
He tells two tales
One he writes to entertain
One he writes for other’s sake

Yet a second tale he tells
Not by his hand does he say
But by the words he chooses
Does he tell this tale

Where one he writes by hand
And is for the masses to read
The other is read
By those who can see

For the second tale is written
As a window to the writer’s mind
To see the heart and soul of him
Who pens the words

How Strange

To be filled with joy
To be filled with peace
Yet not be able to write

When rage and sorrow
Well up within the soul
The words flow with ease

When lost in thought
When the spirit is heavy
Is it easy to write

Is it the curse of the poet?
Or is it the change in heart?

Will the darkness fade
Before the light of day?

Or will the pen become still
And the writer no longer write?