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It's never the same stream
It’s always a new day,
Forever a fresh dream
To blow us away.
 
What is reality?
A leaf in the breeze
Such is the fragility
Of what we believe.
 
A trick of our memory
The sweet sting of pain,
Blinds what we see
As we repeat it again.
 
What of the Sun’s light?
How precious its weight
When swallowed by dark night
That obliterates.
 
And what of an idea?
The tangible Dove
Which eludes us all down here
As it hovers above
 
But deep in a garden
Past thicket and fence
I glimpse something golden,
And see beyond sense
 
Behind it, a fresh stream,
The one never the same.
For what is in that dream,
But life by another name
Koo soo whew , koo soo whew ,
trawrr weet trawrr weet
Piddy shew piddy shew
Treat treat **** --throo heet throo heet
Pwoo troo pwoo troo reet
pwoo troo pwii troo reet
Trigger trigger trigger neat ,
trigger trigger trigger neat
Whipp poor will  whip poor will
Wheww wha wheww , wheww wha wheww* ...
Copyright March 6 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The beauty of isolation,
  the magic in being alone

A singular attraction,
—sagacious undertone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
When I judge
I'm also ready
To be judged
Even when you
Think i don't know;
I know.

This might take
A while to sink in
For I have been
Living; believing–

Listening to you.
Loving you.
Caring;
But no more!

**© Ali Qureshi
When all the limits have been crossed;
what will one do then?
No Letters to explain, but, I should comprehend,not autorized to love for more than just a friend, therefore i shouldn't apprise thee. apropos the love of me.

Though an affliction is impassioned along every bits of me. Nonetheless I desire to witness pragmatic aspect of thee.

The sight of you, and couldn't utter a word of desire, cant make a move, pronounced quiet and despair, fortify the bond that's precious as gold, the love for a confidant should remain untold.
Dave took his little boy for a stroll. Hand in hand, they went, as-three-year old Brody loved walking with his daddy. The spring weather was finally here, and green color was starting to return back to the landscape. Brody stopped and  pointed up in the air, and shouted, "Daddy, look! Birds running in the sky!"

A flock of birds flew on by, fleetingly,  and Dave smiled down at his son beaming up at him. Oh, that little-man-in-the making! It was like father, like son! Dave used to say such things when he was his age, yet he never heard it put that way before. Birds running in the sky--wonder what the birds thought of the ant-men down below? He exclaimed to his son, "Those critters have feathered wings, and they can travel like airplanes!  And they can also relax a while and soar through the sky like they were floating on air! Like balloons!" Dave put his hands out like he was an airplane and Brody followed his lead.

"I want to fly!" Brody declared, running around in circles with his outstretched arms.

"Me, too!" echoed Dave. He knelt down on one leg and pulled his boy next to him and pointed to the sky. "When I was a kid I thought those clouds were made of marshmallows. My dad used to say to me, 'Let's go outside and play catch under the marshmallow roof'".   The cottony, white clouds were billowy, three-dimensional puffs of fluff, stuffed up in various patches as if to decorate the big, blue sky.

Brody gave his father a big boy squeeze, a precious moment, indeed. Dave never wanted to lose that imagination that he could share with his son, and his son could share with him.  They both continued on,  making their way under the marshmallow sky.
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