Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

All those places and times well remembered
While in this strand of pine which I shall forget
To be left far behind and forever from my sight
The wooden steps, old storm door and porch light
Those nights within a dim room much too numb to fret

Another fast fading false sense of serenity
The temporary peace while scornful souls sleep
Before me a manuscript book, in my hand a pen
Once more pondering a journey I will soon begin
In morning's predawn hours before the shadows creep

Daylight will find me high in the Appalachians
Far from an existence that slowly stifles and kills
The glaring ungracious eyes and work's daily round
Hours and miles away having left without a sound
As far as I can see, the mist shrouded dark wooded hills

Reborn and like a new mother the mountains dote
Life taking on a new meaning while she comforts me
What has been left far behind swiftly escapes my mind
Not a single memory will remain of an old life unkind
One beyond another, those misty mountains as far as I can see

Days spent roaming upon ridges, slopes and in hollows
Nights spent resting beside a cascading mountain stream
Outcroppings of grey stone, half covered in green moss
Other valleys, rivers and creeks which I will happily cross
That strand of pine, far behind becomes naught but a bad dream