Kwan Yin by David Friedland
I am not a prophet,
Hardly seeing the present
Either reveals or conceals, the Next.
Thus blind I sift fog for answers no hog could guess,
Two dragons sit upon a throne
Vacated by a drone
Neither wins, as Suns expire by the rate they perspire.
Thus a new sun is born
Do not mourn the end of your last sin,
Death Is not a state of growth.
If Angels rest, the rest expire upon the bed of their desire.
When the grey departs,
A white light warms, haunted by dark, yet light as a lark.
She comes opening as a flower before the morn,
Neither man nor mate can change this fate,
His dreams fade, for the price paid was for karmatic sins
Created by the loss of wins.