This world depicts someone like me as ultra-sensitive,
either from views of a hot temper
or from tears falling cold.
When I look in the mirror of the sky,
I only witness the luminous aura of my empathic soul.
One driven to transform extensive chaos
and ample catastrophe,
into an abstract art, or an irresistible grace
Most Insensitive people have never known.
I’ve deemed hope to facilitate peace
after I’ve heightened the consciousness of
humanity as a whole.
If I can get the glitterati to collectively
use their internal voice,
The world would find its external glow.
In this age of emotional incontinence,
it seems refreshing to emote,
It's a grotesque travesty of compatibility,
yet, on life must go,
On a ground of affinity,
A difficult ordeal of moments and modes,
Moments of altruism,
then comes modes of concern for others and their woes.
I have noticed that the more glib society plants,
the worse this world grows.
A cloud gathers its robe like drifted snow,
As the Puma grieves at the loss of her precious cubs,
the balm comes down to heal
all their unhealed wounds and inflicted blows.
I'd be powerless
to vanish from the sight of these sentient beings,
like their own shadows.

The most blistering, yet meekest thing to do each day,
is to be wholly and completely, here,
Without turning away.
We're either blown about by the wafts of dogma,
beset by intense passion, or mighty tempests,
Whichever path we take,
The road to truth is barricaded by a curious irony of fame and fate.
It's appealing to the urgent tempers of youth,
armed all over with muted antagonisms
violent, rebellious, and confused.
It indicates a shocking swerve to scheming deceptions,
from noble honesty and truth,
By a scandalous species of drunken mockers with a mouthful of nothings to say,
in double measure,
They ramble with vacant minds full of nothings to do.
There aren't many Starseeds,
Bluerays only came to awaken the few.
Their minds are full of thinkings,
Not much to say,
Just
Various things they must do.

The Stars are no less adrift,
Yet, it mirrors that to whom much is given,
Much must have to go.
Justly so,
I was gifted with the power of the cosmos,
Still,
I cannot tell you how much I owe.

© Tristian L.F. Ford