The mystic blue spreads his eons
So like a wingless angel
Flying high in infinite feel
Healing but some tired minds
( and some distant ailing bodies too )
With his soft deft invisible touch
In heavenly grace,
Upon the wanting soul.
As if, for one brief magical moment
Pain seemed but a reprieve
And all was forgotten
In the vast illusion of our freckled past
But then, pleasure over took pain
In a bursting final surge
By the restless track
Upon the restive mid night hour
And madly raced far away
in her feisty-full fierce glory.
As if, the feeble flickering candle,
Only flickered more,
Casting nothing but shifting shadows
Upon the giant ferrous wheel
Of Life’s transient fortune,
Which finally comes churning
to a screeching halt.
And somewhere in the vast fullness
of the still sky,
Both like never before…
Without a word
Or a touch.
That’s the magic of the blue.