surching the brain for somthing to write.
Looking into the depths of the cold frost.
Loooking back into the dark waters.
surching for just a thought.
Looking for the idea.
Finding nothing.
Just the soft crunch of snow.
The foot prints of the past.
the unclear path out.
The light at the end if the cave.
The darklight.

the lake

The reflection on the water.
The distant mountain so perfectly reflected.
Yet that is not all it reflects.
The flesh of a shaterd soul.
The inner with out the outer.
The feard.
Yet at the same time the loved.
yet the same person.
Yet so far from himself.
Yet so close.
The darkness and the light.
The warmth and the cold.
He stands at this lake surching.
Like so many before him have.
Looking for the answer he seeks.
the answer is in himself.
But not the self he knows.
The self that he is.
Yet the lake wont give up the answers.
All that he gets is a old leather book from the lake.


To be continued