Sometimes it feels like a Tolstoy novel,
the pull of fate, as in the desire of each
individual unknowingly stacked upon
the others and leading toward an unstoppable
today's tomorrow, possessive as a rock
fallen on top of a car: this is mine
and I shall not move anymore.
Do the birds feel this outer compulsion?
Are songs generated by the fact of other flyers?
I sit here in awe of the water, keeping the
ships on top and the bottom below.
Each piece is a peace that wove its way
into an unwilling heart, yielding to the
reality's brilliance at the behest of
a generous sunshine.
Sad stories are meant to get the tears out of
the caverns in which they otherwise dwell,
as tragic life can be too much without a
narrator, and the facts of fiction.
Roman Ryan 