Follow

As the years turn
And I get old
The calendar of days
Seems weightier
Full of fond memory
And soft sadnesses.
The only way to joy
Is through purpose
Says the white bird
Leaping into the dance
And here I am
On my purposeful hill
Pushing up
to the very pinnacle
Racing down again.
There's a hawk in the gloaming
Hanging over me
Watching me roam
In the silver, gold
and burnished folds
Of an oceanic sky

Sign in to participate in the conversation

CounterSocial is the first Social Network Platform to take a zero-tolerance stance to hostile nations, bot accounts and trolls who are weaponizing OUR social media platforms and freedoms to engage in influence operations against us. And we're here to counter it.