How is it going to be?
night stalking civility
I cannot comprehend with withered soul, the complacency
Bedraggled within my calloused feet, a fork in the road…no one seems to see
The hallway that looms between the walls of a mind…
has stopped time
As I witness the barren, stone ground, road ahead…
blistered and hollow
On and on and on, we, I shall go
Searching in the wilderness of a soul
I only wish to lay my bitterness in a earthen bed
There is no ugliness in the dark, it now soothes my soul.
It is pruned and hidden behind all that I know.
A midnight hour…now, has become as slow and methodical, as a turtle in spring time.
Quiet, watchful and meandering.
Where there had once been discomfort from the levels of kindness…
I offer myself, whatever will be…will be.
Where had once been fear and disenchantment…
No more hardship.
I am hidden and appointed…no longer is there someone else’s misery.
But there is possibility in limited reflection.
Burdens on the verge of fevered detention.
spirits going bump in the night.
Occasional, end trails in sight.
Beautiful impostors flare up.
Along the line of pretense.
open a mythical gate.
well wishing has been down this road more than once.
Walking in ill-fitting glass slippers.
Stepping into the abyss for a promise of more.
A minister’s daughter…
Who cannot find an open door.
If there is a battle
I hope my head always defers to my heart
Some…things, so beautiful…one must look away.
Of these things,
set us apart.
Moments worth capturing…yet, set so
you wonder about the state of your heart.
A corner curls just a trifle from the far reaches of her parted lips.
A nuance clutches your breathing.
Something that never was…
Something that did not always fit.
It is the kind of love that ruptures and raptures your heart…
Though it was not yours, you watch it, well lit.
Even if it is somebodies love you did not know.
It was someone’s else love to have and to hold.
If this, single entity, called forgiveness…
were a book.
It would be open…
amassed with complex, simple and congeal words.
Each letter…sharp as, the finest blade.
Still…the voyage of…forgetting…would not be saved.
I could, we could, the winds could…embody the same chapter…
The same verse…over and over.
Understanding would stand alone…misspelled.
Oh, how I have hoped…to pen the story of a world…
‘giving back all that it took.’
Chapters filled with mended hearts.
A romantic plot where love builds a home.
And, pain is driven be car…
far, far, away.
But vision is lost…current day…in the burning building of thought.
Leaving a closed book…
With hope being accosted.
A victim of high cost.