(FLOWER, ICE AND FLAME)

(FLOWER, ICE AND FLAME)
THE SOUND... THE MUSIC IS A PART OF THE POETRY...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiCbN0oSfeQ&feature=youtube_gdata_player

And what of the flower in the dead of winter?
It buried in the cold ground.
Where once it was life bathed in splendor it now has seen its death.
Cold has borne it down.
The icy fingers of the cold winds bearing allusions to old man sweep the land.
Breath is but vapor carried away to become the atmosphere.
A thing given to the schism of existence from which we all come and go.
To be breathed and rebreathed again.
Filtered through the leaves.
We these beings living these borrowed lives on borrowed time. Tears that become the ice tinkling to the hard concrete of a city street.
A sigh and we are gone.
The expulsion of warm air.
The last whisper.
Spring but a thought away.
A flame burning on the horizon of pineal planes.
A flower.

JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY