For what it is worth
I see you when I climb the stairs a midst stark twilight.
Your dauntless task given unto an endless flight.
A vision of tolerance and safety.
Kindness and dignity.
A shimmering arc focused on what is here.
A dark side to what is not there.
Can you fix me?
Whiling the while…
cradling ‘of unknown origins’…above the street?
Rest assured I’ve cleaned hell.
It left me in a
‘poor me’ spell.
Days, months, years…
stuck in the glare.
Rummaging in the attic…
drunk and blind…
looking for a purpose, a meaning, maybe a sign.
Now, feral moon, as time becomes,
a whimper and a whim…
As life goes bump in the night…
as it often will.
The dark shadows, the bolted attic door, the childish folk lore’s…
beg the question, once more.
What is IT out there?
One step down from the top of the stair?
IT used to be the monsters sight unseen.
Sometimes, I know, as I do now,
IT is only in a dream.
To me…there is the possibility of
fear of what is known
fear of the unknown.
To me…there is the possibility of…
strange thoughts submerged in routine.
Always an angst devil looking over my shoulder…misinterpreting what I mean.
A heart so full it reaches into the throat.
Tranquility resides nearby…but never takes off her coat.
Panic, panic, say what?
Don’t panic, don’t panic…
the only words that I can breathe.
I look inward to a wild rose bush with thorns…
the beauty does not relieve.
When I say it’s you I like, I’m talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed. ##Mr. Rogers
His eyes…placid and dauntingly, deep.
His mold…a bit of chubby rounded with strange feet.
He looks to me as being…the one.
Both of us know…the one chance in hell…happened out on the street.
He and I just part of a peaceful retreat.
Bill knows with reserved, self preservation, as far a human goes…I am not inclined to mystique.
I will bow down again, again and again, to the keyboard that soothes my song.
I will crouch even lower to feel that I belong.
Belong to Bill’s world…full of thought and no regret.
And, cat friends I have not yet to meet.
Who’s luck is it anyway?
Mine or yours…or, does it really matter?
Truth be told…it is all speculation,
living in the middle with all its,
pomp and circumstances and…
I hear the echo of your words,
“it all seems a little shaky!”
Perhaps, it is the lack of oxygen.
The thinning of the air.
The mocking of the birds.
That makes that statement seem…more or less absurd.