Under The Sycamore

to confess
we swim in the roughest of seas
to depths of disrepair
where life can once more reappear

we peer
into a wilderness where grasses have yellowed
where weather wanes and wares on the weakened,
the withered
awaiting wind to blow her warmth

we wind
with the night and with the day
in silence and the fray
abound
creating
lightning with no sound
we resound
to what may or may not be seem

here alone with a million thoughts

under the sycamore
blinded by vision
I laid eyes upon a dream