Patchwork Whisper

And I said,

"...to what end do we speak,

communing as do the dead,

when all that will pass,

in light of what has existed,

is but mere seconds?"

A chime then gently whistled by:

a furtive, intuitive and unassuming butterfly,

simplicity stamped in a filigreed seal,

tintinnabulations dimly quiet; loud & surreal.

Amiable were the wings a'flutter,

soaring higher than most others,

yet peripheral views were none-too-modest for her.

As well as she knows herself,

my self-acquisitions amount to stutters.

'Twould be one of three instances

wherein an opportunity to give back,

pushed out a thought I was entrusted with,

by an intellect not attained from below,

rather endowed me from above,

like a gift:

"Lay hold on that which you stitch,

calibrate your pulse to the needle,

swear fealty to the tailored dreams you follow;

authentic to yourself, for yourself,

that every second may multiply potential,

for infinite tomorrows,

long after you've lain six-feet under gravel."