The Purfect Condition

We rise
and rise again
for Our Mother
calls
Us home
to Her ethereal
throne

Even wanderers
know
for Her
We glow
We put up the ever-lasting
show

We rise
not to touch the skies
not to bury the lies
not to suffocate
the highs

We rise
in song
to help each other
along
to be strong
to carry the throng

...of change
...of momentum
needed
to rearrange
the bitterly
strange

We rise
giving praise to the skies
trumpeting
Our immortal
sighs

In glory, grace
and gratitude
We humbly
spin this wheel

clockwise



X
03/05/2024

“What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd.” 

William Shakespeare

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