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Progress
October 22, 2012
You will not reach progress.
You will only stunt the growth of a man;
Lips born from denial,
Yours are only as wet as rain-dripped sand.
Your heart runs, runs to pride.
Soft and settling life, passed through our hands.
Gripping time through quaint speech,
Biting beauty bought on a trail of land.
Tethered hands form gently,
Under stars that have since flown, and leaves so grand.
Release every word,
Those most unheard -- trail back from whence you ran.
Progress flutters and ends in peace.
Love that falls, fails, but cannot cease.
© Tlegenova G., Nukus, Uzbekistan
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