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by Bri

They see me, the grass - as the wind blows.
Yet my mind is far beyond the peaks of time;
They do think, yet not of what I thought to do.
What my future could cross with the paths of time;
My memories, my joys - my thoughts, yet it is unseen.
Through the wind, it flies - as a one-winged bird; and yet I hear,
The sound of a thousand songbirds, I can see now.
But my joys, my memories - a mystery in which I cannot solve.
They sit, they listen; but I do not speak.

© by Bri

This writing may be used in its entirety, with credits in tact,
for non-profit ministering purposes.

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