Mysteries, Mysteries

Mysteries, mysteries on mossy cobblestone,
cigarette smoke vanishing down the alleyway,
an otherwise odorless evening of reflection
while quiet humming form distant traffic
reverberates patternlessly between buildings;
a white noise to drown the day’s distractions
as unhurried feet walk mindlessly between thoughts,
dancing in the past before sprinting to the future
in flitting attitudes like breathless butterflies —
and my, oh my, what a sight in the sky —
as pulsing stars flicker behind their wings
like rivulets from forgotten dreams
(angels’ tears cascading across the cosmos
until childlike eyes should see their signs).

Mysteries, mysteries in malleable minds
searching in conquest for their destinies,
chained to the ways of society’s cage
as it rattles between endless opinions,
scourged by apathy and forceful compliance;
a constriction of thought unnaturally
draining the lifeforce within, relinquishing
the mind’s need for playful growth
into a bottomless sea of forgetfulness —
‍ ‍a sea, a sea of sweet angels’ tears —
reflecting heaven’s pulsing stars above
as they shine upon a fragile tragedy
(the vanishing smoke from a cigarette of doubt
starting to choke the little butterflies’ faith).