The Active Eye

Hush, I feel the rush.
Dazed, my feet is seen where the sunlight meets.
Shapes, non consciously looking for cars my field just a peripheral haze.
Take nothing that is lush but on forward time is such.

Crows go cruralling under cumulative groups.
Containg constant deplorable private conversation
I sit up on a cloned ground where gravity last long.

Hush, crow.
Hush, talkative clouds.
Hush, barren grounds.
Hush soul, let the sun kiss the flying eyes again.

Authors: Sometimes poetry doesn't have to be a given. If it was a consonant would it make this poem any less perfect than art.
Written by: Tina Marie Courtney Revised November 19, 2021