Would the matter make any difference if we could turn back time, together or apart?
Remove our granite love letter?
Wear sandals for the steps it took to get us here?
Instead of leaden wear steel- toed shoes…
The anonymity becomes unmasked from time to time.
Transgressions…etched forever in stone.
But with every stride…grave indecision, blindfolds my mind.
Conflicted…there is no joy in the ride.
And, no matter the journeys I take…Canterbury Confessions have nowhere to hide.
How remarkable the steps it takes to bury pride.
A color of faded cotton perks and pokes a quiet and basic day.
Somewhat like a rural assent fed with freedom…
Drawn with tints of rejuvenation.
My same old stroll is teaming with wise colors.
Tangled with piped dreams of syrup.
No matters of coincidence
with the ancient cemetery or forgotten farm.
Even the decadent find rejuvenated faith…
in the sun’s soothing charm.
In the father’s bag of lackluster delights.
Photos, oh so still, of kindness and flowered sprites.
Hand picked pixels for a child’s plight.
Thus, a student, I became.
Chiseled out of a teachers harsh lessons.
Everything beyond the four hollowed doors were overcast by rain.
Infantile in thought, somehow, beauty remained.
In the age of living dangerously,
I aspired to hold the paper cut art…to his throat.
It was only within my black and white discoveries…
that I witnessed…intermittently, madness and hatred…
Into a world of what is conceived…
and, what is best left for pretend.
Drove by the old house today.
A stranger in waiting, sold the shame.
Thus far, looming sadness hung in the earthy frame.
In the snow encrusted trail.
Further on down a humble gravel road.
Sitting on a rocky fence.
Composed centuries before, in haste, by a homesteader’s plight.
I had become slack about what steered me here.
That is until my seated bones turned stale and cold.
And, unchained branches of nature reminded me…
‘there are stories yet to be told.’
Degradation begins with the first snow.
As if…it and I had, somewhere else to go.
An effect of hallucinogenic thaw grabs a bygone broken bone.
How radiant the fictitious heat?
I hope to never know.
Yet, the struggle from inward calls forth a name.
A yearning for year long travel cannot be tamed.
Scurrying over embankments accosted with previous tread.
To the woods, I am constantly led.
Desperation marks mile one in the sound of Styrofoam steps.
Gawky forsaken rotted pine limbs.
Soon become a threat.
So difficult to gauge all myths lying in surround sound.
Far off crows.
Noises that are eerily familiar to a wilderness I used to know.