Post by Brian on Jul 4, 2018 16:31:39 GMT -6
Upon ancient hills of Celtic legends,
Do caressing winds of gentle love blow,
Carried from hearts long forgotten,
They whisper yesterday's words today,
Today we feel those words touch us,
Lightly tugging at our beating hearts,
Light of love sweetly brushing our souls,
Ribbons of light twinkling like little beacons,
Beacons summoning powerful emotions,
Calling out to every nerve we possess,
Rising a sense of euphoria in our bodies,
As we meld together in the ancient flames,
Flames paint the sky with red's passions,
In the early morning every lightening dawn,
As morning dew rainbows mark the grass,
Where faeries dance on tumbling pollen,
Pollen that snows with warmth of new life,
Carried to points all over the rolling hills,
Through the green grown lush fields,
So they may flourish through the seasons,
Seasons pass in timeless breaths,
We see them not for our spirits glow,
Transcending fades to the mystic fog,
Is where we waver between borders,
Borders between realities of what is,
Realities of what could be
Remote chance realities,
Missed realities,
Realities,
So many there,
So few ever explored,
Yet we'll know them well if we just breathe,
Breathe with me through this dream,
Together we can stand high on hills,
See a familiar world anew through eyes,
Steadfast together atop the hills we stand upon.
Brian Paul Sullivan © 2010
Do caressing winds of gentle love blow,
Carried from hearts long forgotten,
They whisper yesterday's words today,
Today we feel those words touch us,
Lightly tugging at our beating hearts,
Light of love sweetly brushing our souls,
Ribbons of light twinkling like little beacons,
Beacons summoning powerful emotions,
Calling out to every nerve we possess,
Rising a sense of euphoria in our bodies,
As we meld together in the ancient flames,
Flames paint the sky with red's passions,
In the early morning every lightening dawn,
As morning dew rainbows mark the grass,
Where faeries dance on tumbling pollen,
Pollen that snows with warmth of new life,
Carried to points all over the rolling hills,
Through the green grown lush fields,
So they may flourish through the seasons,
Seasons pass in timeless breaths,
We see them not for our spirits glow,
Transcending fades to the mystic fog,
Is where we waver between borders,
Borders between realities of what is,
Realities of what could be
Remote chance realities,
Missed realities,
Realities,
So many there,
So few ever explored,
Yet we'll know them well if we just breathe,
Breathe with me through this dream,
Together we can stand high on hills,
See a familiar world anew through eyes,
Steadfast together atop the hills we stand upon.
Brian Paul Sullivan © 2010
