Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.
The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.
A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.
Darling, I know something about love.
It isn’t dressed in hazard red.
It isn’t laced in road closed puns.
Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.
There is a dusting on the road…
a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.
Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.
But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.
What happens when we cannot levitate any longer.
For when that disability begins,
it is our past playing hide and seek.
What happens when our memories of seesaw’s and mechanical pony’s come crashing down,
in an around our bare, to all, feet.
Only to be relinquished by a present we will not believe.
How soon to the realization that we are all approaching something…
we are leaving it behind.
Definition of Levity:
High in spirit. Lightness of soul
abandoned garage over on River road.
In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.
In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.
That is where make-believe takes a seat.
It is where poetry goes.
Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.
I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.
To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.
Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.
Flea Market snowshoes had been my last hope. And, I knew well enough, falling up would be easier to achieve than down.
Both being a natural achievement that comes with little sound.
Still! There had been an organic urge.
The kind set within a pit. Lit up. Flamed and encouraged.
All of the elements wound itself…in a curiosity, I would not purge.
I began to walk upon frozen picnic tables, brutish mountain waters.
And, varying unearthly objects of a similar kind.
Nothing more than…raw, risky behavior by design.