through the I Ching lens
softly a song
lamentations of steadfastness
silvery stone idols childishly
clinging to iron mountains
insensitive to bristling earth
spinning eyes of fire up
before a gourd of ash
resonating the native fear
hoarding warm-blooded
skins of tears against time
under rabid furs of wit
in gathered lost age lakes
in moist dark vaults
waiting
always waiting
for reflection eternal
but a sympathetic glow
warps the glass beneath
the song of change is soft
and softer still
and heard twice as clear
Love,
Rev. MoonPie
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