We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
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.
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.
Sometimes, I wonder too much…if I wonder too much. Live life within a dream. Or, at least, a daydream.
How lucky am I? To look up, as well as, down.
As if my grievance with nature is that of anxious inspiration.
As if these walks were cheap snippets of temptation.
“You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
In the midst of thunderous gale.
A noose is loosened.
Dislodged from a ceiling.
Where the lead is chipping and peeling.
Stones, previously marked with similar name.
A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.
The obliged have always wondered.
Can you cremate pain?
Thus, hold onto dignified days,
and their remains.
A participant of curiosity’s oddity.
I, too, have queried…
What remains of the day?
All the protocol that stands in the way.