The Air is Rare
When we dare.
It seems the air is rare,
And filters through refraction,
Diaphanous sweet and spare,
That spells our interaction.
The spectrums of transparency,
The times when we’re translucent,
The degrees within the errancy,
The way we are confluent.
Like a flight in the night,
Swinging through the air,
And because and in spite,
We open when we dare.
The colors of the rainbow,
Seen in a drop of rain,
The magic moon translucent glow,
The pleasure and the pain.
Opening like a flower,
We share care and empathy,
And like a summer shower,
A cool clear clarity.
Ups and downs, smiles and frowns,
The good, bad, and in between,
The sonorous and soulful sounds,
The salty and serene.
Caught inside a catalyst,
There burns the flight of fire,
The sparkle of an amethyst,
The passion of desire.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I’m only flesh and blood,
Translucent as that’s not all,
A flower about to bud.
©
David Rudder
2022
Thanks for reading.
