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Image for the poem As Above, So Below

As Above, So Below

The morning glaring sun, cast a glazing sheen on the traffic wet road  
that winds into the misty depths.From the backstage of the blinding light,  
the trucks fade slowly into view, with a massive form any other but mechanics..  
 
Shapes looming closer and closer,roaring like thunder passing by, fast  
as if winter has turned every thing ghostly eerie and scaring.While the bare trees,  
lazily shed their dead leaves on the muddy lanes make the view reminiscent of some fairy tales  
in some old books on the shelf..  
 
I saw the end of the road sinking into abyssal mist, as the morning sun  
sent the show into a silver reflection, whereupon my path starts into the woods and the hilly mountain.  
 
My coffee comes hot, as i tuck my newspaper under my armpit, eager to escape while time  
is ripe and the muse is busy stinging its dart in my flair, stirring my pen to spill its inky flow........  
I care to much less of the people around as i seem out of the way, out of the mundane  
day-to-day face and run and a disordered being who still holds a newspaper, mad with crosswords  
puzzle, and using a pen instead of a keypad........  
 
So the day begins, as all i pass is only shadows that pass by, i have one destination in mind;  
where trees strand and mountains rise, and breeze blows,, and the human being is born again.  
 
Across the old river too small to span with only one stride, the piney perfumes fill the forest edge  
and give an inviting temptation to go  deep in the woods and get the sylvan spirit of the Driades..  
everything is just calm and tender, as the moist mild earth feels so ripe under my feet, into such silence  
some newly nestling birds send their twitter within a morning dead silence, i that i felt being sent into  
the heart of some fairy books, from Peter Pan and Little red riding hood, but time is only live and streaming as  
i realised i had reached the hilltop, where i sent a look down onto the small village that lies like dead tomb.  
only smoke and some hushed, suffocated sounds echo inside its desolate walls, as if time runs on everything  
except my little village.
Written by poeticdelight (SilentlySpoken)
Published
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