Death’s Nomadic Treasure Found
            by Odin Roark

A wise man told him
The tuning fork essence,
Is never idle
It is always resonating.

As in…

Surviving one’s homeless spirit,
One may tune in audacity for a roof ,
Direct eyes to dine on tomorrow
When eyes no long see,
Listen.

When ears no longer hear,
Think.

When no thought comes,
Allow.

Resonance lingers,
Even when senses seem sealed.

For when one’s father no longer lives,
Compassion becoming father.

When mother passes on,
Embracing order is natural.

When no friends come near,
Quiet assumes its own companion.

When one’s home is no more
Silence becomes shelter.

And so…
He now resides amongst the trees,
Somewhere some would call nameless,
Needing not any supernatural influence,
For his tongue leads its own cosmic choir,
Allowing earth’s fortune
Visit his park bench
But never own it.

As he drifts into nocturnal bliss…

He knows need remains but a tactic or strategy.
His means have discovered the within,
Where nothing and everything
Becomes his destiny,
Anonymity proving divine,
Inevitable death but treasure found.

He also teaches
When your lover has gone,
Sleep invites your courting.

For tomorrow’s awakening
Awaits slumbering shadows,
Primed to detach into the light
Where begins anew
The tuning fork’s essence,
Allowing death to become a treasure.