For some reason tonight, I found myself in a zone and just felt like writing. Somehow, it came out as poetry. It wouldn't stop. Sometimes I feel I am only a messenger, a puppet. Someone uses my hands to transfer to paper and song.
I wanted to share. Make of them what you will. Maybe you'll find meaning.
Tomorrows pour in, over and over. Some may exclude part of us... and we may exclude some parts of them. We decide, but not alone.
Running around all day with coins in our pockets, jingling, falling out. Lemonade stands, long days waiting. Leaves on the ground, wet ground, cold ground. Yellow buses too loud. Day after day, so much new, so much changing, but very slowly. Break a while, then back to it, day after day after day. Final bell rings, gather our things. Put some coins in our pockets and run around all day.
Day glows. A far cry from a long stride that lasted all night. Thoughts linked together like chain. Endlessly different but tied. A circle, confused by a break in the line. Sleep.
If only! But it won't change. "Ifs" are all there are. "Nothing" is definite, nothing will change. Stones remain cold, quickly reverting after a slight rise. He sees but doesn't understand. He's lucky. He. It had to be him. No one else would fit.
The aftermath will be slow, shaken, dripping. Pools will gather, clear as from cracked Northern rock, but salted. Another chapter ends to make room. Another door opens to the bright.
I look through the glass, storms began raging to drive me away. It's time to get serious, bent over kneeling and folded like clay. I run towards the light as fast as I can to escape from the war. Thirteen steps, one more to go. Now I am free.
New to us. Barely here. The mist is gone, risen with the heat of the sun. Hungry and tired, crying. Shocked by opening eyes. Outside there's happiness. Strangers smiling… but what IS laughter. Words misunderstood and out of context or a glimpse of things to come. Here. Now. Oh so bright.
One more? Can't be sure. Sandman's knocking. There he sleeps, dreaming, questioning. "What if he leaves and doesn't return?" Will he remember? Will he be reminded? Will he even want to remember? A trail of breadcrumbs, yes. It will be set out.