So, good day. Better night. Some things I can write, others are best laid aside for forgetting. Everything I thought I might be is as sure as dust alight, a shape coalesced with little thought and continuing betrayal to past form.
Open the quiet night onto a faded veranda. The frame closes in upon a shaded vase, and the call goes out for more. More moon, more sky, more of the good, the stuff of passions. Fade to a discarded rose and cut.
Tell the man behind the gate,
Tell him what I say to you,
Everything has come of late,
And listen carefully to what you must do:
As passersby turn from your gaze,
Don't allow the sum to amaze,
But don't let them past without a glance,
And hopefully you'll own a jeweled chance,
The key, an answer of sorts,
Will caress your hand while it extorts.
Plain and disheveled, he saw that life was a small parade, one in which the leaders followed the clean up.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
No comments:
Post a Comment