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An Unsent Reflection to Kahlil Gibran

/I am a stranger in this world...I am a poet who composes what life proses,/
/and who proses what life composes. ~Kahlil Gibran/


And therein this world foreign the internal beat of breath,
Exiles are created for words,
Destined to the veins of mother's leaves,
Left skimming the surfaces of a lake she sails.

They shaped me under the orange blossoms of her hair, 
Twists of branches grounded a lifetime's era.
The union of their fingerprints,
Reverberated lucidities from clasped hands.

I learned to sleep with the sun, 
Closed eyes grabbed at its tales of stolen stars.
Rain was a reminder of pain, 
Soiling itself into silhouettes.
And every glimpse of feather upon wind
Whispered a location of open doors.

Still, fire infuses a loyalty to dream.
Golden streets of yesterday's love beg presence
As if memory's need is to create a city in the flicker of bliss.
Even when, it is the indigo flame of a forgotten avenue, 
That speaks the true radiance of silent victories.

Having been trained to create 
From the /hallelujah/ of nature,
I've found evolution can be swallowed whole 
If one listens closely to the moon.

For everything is a melody of faith.
As the mind hops over moments like river-rocks,
I can outdraw the mirrored song of any destiny.
It's nothing less than a chameleonic gardenscape? 
An arbor of a father, ornamented
By climbing ivies of a mother.
All randomly pierced with the color of God
Then framed, with barks of unfolded paths 
That splinter discovering flesh.

Now grown I realize, 
How the world elates itself into spins
When its habitu鳠force open their eyes between gray
To see the veiled faces of shade
Adorning thoughts of rapture.
A fresh scent of citrus,
Can write a collective biography of one day.
The spitfire of stars--is an appetizer for tomorrow.
And oh how the twerp of a bird crafts an unmarked poem,
Balancing itself on the wire of air to fingertips 
Until we hear the next word.



Once new to this world?
Knowledge of the unseen 
Bled itself into arteries like an exhausted tide from Titan.
Religion wilted, and I found even the spirit of a lily 
Can write itself into the Book of Life.

Once new, but old when I was born again.
And now, at the bank of every river's bend yet to be seen,
I'll find myself in desperate pieces
Lurking between shadows, waving arms
Like prideful war flags whirling to surrender's white.

A stranger to this world I may be,
But I was raised on an eagle's wing that hovered above it.
The prints of my steps were hunted naked 
Before life dropped me to its dust.