Something that wrote itself.

there are few things as profound
as feeling your own pulse

how often do we forget
that we live
while we live.

caught up in
and distracted by
battles fought
both inside and out

yet isnt it nice to remember
that breathing too can be voluntary
if you but think of doing it.
a strange paradox, isnt it?
that such a vital function
is executed without your thought
with nothing more than
subconscious consent?

there are few things as profound
as feeling your own pulse

how often do we forget
that sometimes it is
reason enough to run
simply because we can run
and the fear of falling
skin scratching bones breaking
is forgotten as
the wind
rushesinyourface
and the blood
poundsinyourveins

-----

there are few moments as profound
as those immersed in
bittersweet nostalgia
of moments stolen in
secluded tables in empty restaurants
when eyes behold
bright emeralds and crimson
where dull browns and greys
were thought to dwell

as we let each day of our lives
pass us by, we realize

nothing is sweeter than the past

all the world is mirrored within

and there is no scent
like the scent of newly damp earth
in the first monsoon rain.