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Listen; to, the Ancients, speak.
When you hold a conch,
to your ear.
Hearken, to their patience leak.
Their, sagely, fonts,
that make, the muddy; clear.

The Ancients, speak, but are, rarely, heard,
by herds of shepherds, unflocked, absurd.
Strewn, beleaguered; city, valley, plain and peak,
are pining, for; pricking lugs & sound alerts,
wet, flowy words, grass & rock can creek.
That follow; missed, ancestral, laked tracks, off-beat.

Listen; when, the Ancients, speak.
In night-visiting tongues,
of babbled dreams.
A messaged crypt, latent.
Secrets; passed and yond,
along; subconscious streams.

If, you, eavesdrop, inside of yourself & underneath,
within; your earholes & below soles under peat.
That’s where, souls and spirits, silently, conversate.
Listening, in peaced sanctity, knelt; at, Ancient’s, feet.

© poormansdreams

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