Seasons go by;

The wind blows, the birds fly.

Worthless, is the sight, for it’s encapsule to a screen.

Ungrateful, we seem, to the beauty that beams.

 

The hold of a hand,

 the touch of the skin,

 Impeccable perfection yet unheeded to the surface,

granted and unappreciated 

to the act of custom.

 

A Sun that lays in the depths of eternity,

portrayed in abundance 

yet perceived by few,

enjoyed by many 

yet bathed by none.

 

And the world had to tumble,

 for sentience to rise.

Small became big; 

big became immense.

Eyes unsealed 

and realization suffused.

 

Now a single breath is acknowledged, 

a new day is worshiped.

Touch became the religion; ignorance made bliss.