This is a passing by
A non-chance at running along
Losing hope in a rubbage pile
Of inconsistent bragging
Long lines that snake around
Two solid posts marked in red
Avoiding damage of the worst kind
While still maintaining
An innocent truth
Explaining how we just don’t know anything
To me, you were floating
Ethereal, from matter
Beside me in frame
But floating upon my mind
Never leaving my consciousness
For each step I wondered
Will she still follow?
Does she hear the same river I hear?
Has her heart heard mine now?
To which I remained in breath
An achingly lost lament
That followed my beating heart
Into a heart of softness
I still hoped for knowing.
You don’t understand the envelope of my heart
You never did.
You grabbed hold
Of little pieces
I had never used before.
That held me dreaming
Because I am a dreamer
Dreaming my damnedest truths.
Buy your grabbing on to,
Was your dreaming of, too;
I, wild as beasts held
Flickering of hope
On the heaviest and darkest of nights
Finding cold love
In the season of heat.
I am a number that’s been picked and then released,
Signed and dotted twice and
Sealed strong with our family crest.
This is destiny in the hands of an entrepreneur,
Folding up the corners and
Wrapping tight the family chest.
Watching lights twinkle in a glimmer of urbanized hope,
Shaking off flood water and
Minding the high level mark.
Without a standard ruling system we are all zeros and ones;
Counting guides and shutting eyes
And a program we just press run.
Being able to take over the heart of an ancient soul was creating pressure within the young boys heart.
He saw wisdom, he saw truth, but he also saw the windows of time shift from opportunity to rest, from an ounce of hope to pains that lifted one awake shortly after midnight.
A silent lake was a window.
Like glass, a heart is precious; always suspended at the edges of tomorrow picturing faint smiles and implied intentions.
Here the young boy clutched tightly to his grandmothers pointer finger, understanding conscious kindness in her forever eyes that always found his quietly.
They were together often for this reason, but also her lemonade tasted like sweet nectar.
He would remember this as time would slowly reduce rations of nectar but still filled full with every bit of love.
Only mid-summer’s sun and a lazy bumblebee were present as Grandma smiled and laid her head against the sun chair, closing her eyes.
The young boy drew a shape of a heart on the dusty table top before he walked down the steps and out into the yard where he found his foot soldier, Rusty, the valiant family golden retriever that kept watch over the young boy while Grandma rested her smiling heart – shaded, but in the sun.
Don’t confuse my verbs with my dreams
It’s a dangerous and wild scape to walk upon
With high hopes, hard work, long nights,
And milestones cajoled by the lot.
Refrain from imprinting your impression
With adjectives and monosyllabic rhetoric.
Stick to the purest of truths,
– The thick in this stock,
The essence of this admission –
And rumble on, like a night train.