Not About

It’s not about refraining from, 

since it keeps dwelling in the mind 

that the strings of solid worlds

still pull the spirit from behind.

But rather that it is in sight

as something of a rift, before

the rusted highness of gone mights,

and even young souls dread the flood.

Amid the granules of static noise,

over the tangles of the veins of old,

mysterious patterns call witnesses eyes

as woven coating above line of sky.

Sometimes, as if boiling point is glimpsed,

or maybe as quiet and unchanged

but yet, the flow of unseeable waves

had long been blowing for the poles to shift.

There’s a firm certainty in that, whatever is to unfold,

what forged the shackles for the chaining of the words

is but a vector for life’s oscillating cords.

It’s not about refraining from,

it’s not about dismissing plights.

A silver string of what’s to come

is pulling from what is in sight.

It’s not about refraining from.

Much as this far has come its light.
It’s not about restraining love.

The torch relay's not to deny.