One way or the other a ship is gearing to set sail, whether it be a light beacon vessel, or one of darkest forebode; whether it be greeted by the tumbling forms of lovers, or battling brothers; it will sail. Sometimes the string crawls so slowly past the grasp, that the days seem weeks, and low triumphs of habit become amazing miracles of fortitude and spirit.
Beneath twelve to ten layers of rock he lay,
Pressed 'neath both loam and clay,
Awake with the thoughts of one lost,
to his plan of escape and that cost
his mind shifts,
as the mulchy sand into his mouth sifts.
Such weight, such measure,
hides little golden treasure
and too many dead.
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.
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