Joy are colours drawn by old, pastel hands
illustrations of wild geometries and large faces,
with tiny, bright, few hairs - a small demand
A wall for a canvas, a splatter of rainbow secured in all its bases

To see the sky truly is to remember a child
whose dreams were written in words unsaid and shared in silence
a vast horizon of chance, colour, and dizzying dreams of the wild
where seeds of lucid music flourish to aspirance

A life full of joy is a child finding home,
with indescribable, absolute, ever-flowing certainty
that all will be well no matter the rain,
the thunder,
the storm,
that all will be well no matter the pain,
though sundered,
and torn

A life full of joy are aged children remembering, discovering, living, breathing,
with indescribable, absolute, ever-flowing certainty
where home rests within a soul of all my souls, bound forever found in joyful eternity


[Washed by fine watercolour, an achromatic illustration of three, withering, white serpents devouring each other, sprawls at the end of this post.]


Penned by my hand on the 9th of Mayan, in the year 949 AF.