Scattered birch bones about the way…
Classics bellow below.
Sometimes I talk to the angels.
They appear as dust on the rays of the sun.
‘No, no, sweetheart your pilgrimage has just begun.’
And, though, my footing grabs at my destiny…
Strangely, strange, it is the wilderness that sets my spirit free.
A dare, one would say.
As the winged mystique call those that wander to the way…
And, though the hike runs on empty.
The serenity symphony tempts and provokes me.
The eyes of forest know…
I do not see all there is…
all there is to know.
It will be clear.
Those trolls listening both far and near.
Indefinitely indebted but still, I cannot go.
Chivalry in a voice.
These demons up on mountains made by moles…
‘Are not your choice.’
Though, the air I breath is not free.
If I walk away now,
I can own my own feet.
Villains and angels…abound.
Holes in the wall.
Furnace on stall.
There is not enough room on the ark for us all.
I will not choose to take what I need and leave the rest.
Cannot adhere to the father knows best.
Small Town notes:
The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!
The town that finds you will bind you!
It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!
Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!
You, yourself and someone that looks like you…
Either way your wear your town well.
the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.
New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!
I ache, like the fallen tree before me.
These farming fields so…solemn, soulful and, slightly…alone.
Peace is here.
It is in the catching of our breath.
Flying on gusts for a thousand miles.
I could find the unity…
If, the terrain, and I, were all that is left.
It has been windy here.
Seems…for a whole life.
Perhaps, that is what feeds a New England appetite.