Free and flying singing birds
rise and dip like dolphins do
and it matters not the air or sea
‘tis just the land that draws a line
between your needs and mine
and maims or kills the spirit
of the perceived “not me”.
And it’s into that damn awful mix
that love must come to heal the sick
and raise from out those killing fields
the attackers and the dead?
But I think of love it’s just a “thing”
that sits on sidelines of the fray
waiting for each one to be
conscious of its awesome feel.
Love’s not “pushy” like you are
and toothless it can’t bite the hand
that feeds it garbage from the can
of egos wrapped it selfishness.
Yet in the breath of living things
love’s silent hope beds down
and it knows to be half comatose
until the wake up call.
Tread carefully lest you wake it up
before the time is right
for somehow it’s like you and me
unproductive without sleep.
Love needs to sleep and breathe in deep
yet still perceived as a “not me”!