Valleys

I went down in to the Valley that day,
not for any reason more than the fulfilment of my own selfish whim.
My thirst for that line where the green met the blue of the river,
where grass met water and they orgasmed mud along the banks.
In the Valley,
my mind did wander,
and I was stolen by the hands of Nature.

When she let me go I was so lonely,
not for any reason but my total desire for love and lust.
My hunger for the smile and the kiss between silk sheets,
letting the impending doom of Life wash over me in laughter and passion.
In the Valley,
my mind did wander,
yet still I am stolen by the hands of my mind.

Lest I forget my desire for freedom,
the irony of which is not lost to these ears.
For freedom and love seldom walk hand-in-hand,
but rather wave to each other silently across the street.
As I were alone I was with everyone,
part of the world where all was born of elemental glory,
born to die,
born so significant only to lose that too with age,
the universal metaphor that walks and talks and sings once in a while.

My eyes are so restless,
from the sights of the world.
The colours that burned my mind,
broken clockwork still trying to tick in the dark,
with lights flickering behind fleshy walls,
so tired of shining after a hard day's work.

In all that you do, be all that you are.
Stagnation is the death of the immobile mind.