To the lover whose seeds have yet to be sown,
To the critic within that thinks my soul it does own,
To the depths of the ocean,
To the ohia's high mountain abode,
I wonder when along the way did the pieces of my heart get strewn,
Across desert floors,
Upon the sand of a million beaches,
At the busted train station on the border of home,
On the border of being alone,
I bow to you,
For the illusion granted,
I recognize now how my vision is slanted,
Acknowledgement the first step,
To venture into what is forbidden,
To awaken what has been hidden,
To remember the eyes of the woman on the road,
content with picking tomatoes,
Even though her life is owned,
Once one realizes nothing is ours,
Our discontentment,
Our victories,
Our heartbreak,
Out torment,
Our bliss,
we can fully let go,
Settle the heart,
And trust the flow.
Aho.
