Bright Whispers Of The End
He walks across the parted waters.
He is the once ever coming wind.
He hears echoes of thunder dressed,
on the bright whispers of the nearing end
Valleys grown golden shed their earthly attire.
Translucent mountains rise upon pillows of fire.
He was once long ago the ever coming wind.
Yet now he hears echoes of thunder as he nears the end.
He now walks in silent beauty upon stepping stones of glass.
Holding in his palm is a silver key to the doors of a broken past.
He was once the coming wind that now hears the thunder,
That is dressed on the bright whispers of the end.
J. Allen Wilson © 9/21/2010