HAMMERS AND KITES

Hands holding hammers
build their castles with ardent resolve,
never complaining if they become a shack
instead of palace.
For the will is the architect,
nails made within the heart,
even the weather can't defile
what the oneness of self inspires.
No excuses, not a single plea offered
to any celestial ears,
because they are imagination's passion,
silent except in lore of superstitions.

So the mind wearing faith in individuality
sings it serenade,
drafted construction plans for life
where what we reap
is always the fruit of our sickle,
even if it is rusty or dull.

By the soul, wind is keeper instead of the earth,
sensing the dressing from an ethereal membrane,
life is a kite, flown by third eye sight,
hammers can break, edifices crumble,
but the spirit wears its flight suit
able to soar instead of pound.
It glows with tinctures
shining from one's inner generator,
radiating in the outlines of mood's rainbow,
a repository of an eternal umbilical thread,
tugging, luring to have eyes
seeing the songs with notes,
invisible to reason's orbs.

Halos over the spirit
always following labor of the wind,
mental mallets preferring to fix any problem
with cadence of reliance's thwack.