Deep within your twisted dreams,
Streams of blackened smoke surround;
Shrouded thoughts of darkness keep.
Guardian hold you
Slow to dancing light,
Spraying comfort to linger till eyes open;
Rise and leave these pains trapped in sleep.
Hope is the thing
With feathers that circles in the soul
Singing the tune without words never stopping, never shall
And sweetest in the surf is heard
Soaring beat with the storm
That could silence the little Lovebird
Keeping so many warm
I’ve heard it in the frozen lands
And on the reddest seas
Yet never have I heard it ask
Any song of me
Sweetly said you are my everything
Through the woods and rocky shapes
Nothing said, nothing moved
Perfect still as the moments before
So I am so behooved
To tell you thus
Shamefully blushed you know it all
But sweetly said you are
Stretching defiantly into the air it wavered sweet,
Aiming for any shoe, any shoe that would just grab him;
Driving for another who would mirror the things he sought,
Wishing for that one loafer in which he could be caught.
Forcefully and maniacally it came before he knew,
Sweeping the slimy stickiness from the gravel pavement.
“At last,” he swooned as wind rushed madly through his open arms,
As sneaker scrapped so ferociously maiming all his charms.
i never saw any so pretty
as those the night before
the blaze was ever burning
ashes sifted, scattered to the earthen floor
faces shifted with dying screams
timber screeching, reaching into the darken sore
but i never saw any so peaceful
as those stars outreached above
blinded to the people crying
so removed from pain and gore
it is the easiest thing
just rolls off the tongue
a breeze that you sail upon
good-bye you yell
as they bellow back
a regular linguist don juan
it takes hours this joyful bliss
a confident builder plus
a public mess
that lifts the spirit
it’s a beater of the bust
The whistle blows, the scenery engulfs for a split second in a rush of snow, it is winter. The blistering cold of the north winds and the sweet smell of burnt chocolate and rubber fills the air. I, sitting ever so confidently with my three dollar hot cocoa and water, am watching it all roll over the hills of Illinois and starting a new when it hits a plateau.
It is neither the past or the future, but whether it is the present, well, I’ll leave that for you to decide. I pass thousands and thousands of houses with smoke pillowing from their quaint brick-layered chimneys. Everyone seems content with their everyday lives, but I suppose everything seems that way when you’re always moving. It’s funny, I guess, thinking about dancing, plastic flamingos on a stranger’s lawn or even a mischievous gnome in your own. Someday I’d like to own a boat so that I can float away in unknown waters whenever I desire. Someday.
More houses, trees, snow. In just four hours I would have traveled worlds over by the window seat of a train. I started in building-to-building windy city Chicago, one ant amongst millions in a colony, when I arrive I’ll be in, sure enough, Kirkwood, MO. The towering trees, swaying grass, and hometown folks will greet me with waves and lingering smiles. The sun will warm my cheeks. I’ll drive miles to get to my homestead in which I’ll take a moment to socialize and reflect the fruit of my journey. Perhaps, I’ll even read this passage aloud. Anything is possible when you’re in a different world.