Vincent van Gogh, Claude Monet , all stood on the edge of bringing beauty a life of its own, to touch and feel the ceiling of the universe in its blink still cold emptiness but yet full, and to smell the salty sea. To run among the stars and to cry, laugh, touch and be loved is all we want. Shadows fall among the true as if they are pale reminders of the inner thoughts bound not by reason nor felt in song.
Just a field of godly blooms a bed for Adonis head shelter from Shakespeare lost seasons, the silhouettes of yester year. and every farewell dreamer that has landed upon the shore of humanities embrace, I kiss the soft sweet William peddles and blow the pinwheel of all my wants into the abstract were another will turn the page.
It is a wonderful day to breath, it is a wonderful day to lay awake and dream. Soft is the journey that carries the timeless morning and afternoon light the embrace of yet a sonnet, a painting a poem and upon the clay of destiny, I mourn no more. A fellow can always turn the page. Turn back you soldier turn back you gentlemen of old turn back Vincent turn back Monet turn back my heart never mourn.
And yet the well runs dry the road has come to its end for some small child for some old man some soldier laying upon the cinder fields. Now is where the true journey begins to understand this life, just a field of sweet William for Adonis to lay his head. An ox pulling still his burden strains his will, turn back o ox there awaits your supper there awaits your earthly toil, there awaits your place next to were Adonis lays his head.