Poetry

A Trip Worth Making

A glorious place,
hand-painted
in the fabled green
of rolling Irish hillsides,
nothing but space
to roam,
to be alone
with the breeze
and tranquil thoughts
to carry furrowed brows
to crease-less ease.
A glorious place
indeed, walking free
with need
in absentia,
colorful flowers
smiling in sweet,
perfumed dementia,
all wrongs and hate
forgotten,
no hunger,
no down-trodden,
not a single thing
misbegotten.
Can such a place survive
anywhere but dreams?
It seems unlikely
while the insanity mill
mindlessly promotes
hate-filled beings.
But you can still go there,
follow the golden geese
and they will lead you,
inside yourself,
to that land called
Peace.

Categories: Poetry

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