A cavern shrouded in snow,
Home to air and ice,
When weary, the bear emerges,
Dormant on shards of vice.
A light which wakes blind mice,
And refines snow to steam,
Merely reflects off its claws,
Forming a chronic beam.
A noise could not halt its dream.
Neither thought nor prayer,
Which one’s love urges,
Could wake this bear.
A fate none hope to share,
For this bear does not know,
To walk on its paws,
Its own mind must grow.
— Kevin Joseph Flors
Thanks for reading! Don’t know about future post times, however expecting a post within the next week would be reasonable.
(Photo from Pexels)
Plate of Soup 