The Hart
In the opportune hour, where shadows masquerade,
The hart emerges, regal in its stance,
Perceptivity sharpens, a blade in the dusk,
With antlers like branches, a crown of vesture.
Cultivating thoughts like seeds in the soil,
The hart roams freely, unencumbered by moil,
Kinetic whispers of the wind, a restless pulse,
Echoing the heartbeat of nature’s convulse.
Precariously balanced on the edge of silence,
It listens intently, a master of guidance,
Rhythmic echoes of footsteps in the pathways,
The forest’s embrace, where the wild heart sways.
Dissertations of the heart, penned in the margins,
The stories of survival, of ancient origins,
Sinuous paths winding through the enigma of time,
The hart’s journey unfolds, a rhythm, a rhyme.
A panoply of dreams, scattered like autumn leaves,
In the rustling underbrush, the spirit believes,
Harmonious notes rise, a symphony of the lost,
In the twilight’s espousal, the hart pays the cost.
Metamorphosis unfolds, the caterpillar’s sigh,
Yet the hart remains indomitable, beneath the vast sky,
To confute the stillness, to challenge the night,
With grace and with courage, it steps into moonlight.
In the motif of reality, concocted our plight,
The hart, a symbol of hope, in the fading crepuscule,
A being of the forest, never to lost or ever to roam,
Where nature and spirit find their true home.
In the opportune hour, we find our way,
In the sinuous corridors of thought and decay,
With the hart as our guide, the forest of the unknown,
In the heart of the wild, we are never alone.
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