Standing on top of the mountain he could see so many wounds now
on the earth as if people had allowed faith
to pass through
without paying attention,
so the paths overgrown
disappeared,
though he often
respected the candles
he walked beyond what had been
letting go of tired sermons,
the worn out reaching
but he never lost himself,
instead
within the light bathing, the songs
of the leaves
the forest spoke to his heart,
that he was never
alone.
Not ever.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
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