On the Wings of a Memory

(N.B. This is a Waldenesque work)

With torn spirit I go to the tranquil creek,
There monkish contemplation, divine revelation I seek,
And build a mere meek human nest
Financed from only a miser's chest,
So I shall grow in the forest's feigned solitude.

Come day, my heart beats a pulse to the pop
Of bursting seeds sprouting peas and hyssop,
And while passing time under a gleaming moon
With the crackling leaves and cackling loon,
I stare at Truth rendered nude.

And there my grave will be put,
Amid the quiet battles always underfoot.
Now that I am again under lamp-lit skies,
I muse, sigh, then close my eyes
And the memory lifts my soul to higher altitudes.