Looking to the western sky that's aflame
With oranges, reds, and yellows
Highlighting and sharpening the clouds
Making them look like plumes of smoke from a forest fire
That is burning so far away

Later on the reds turn to purples
Losing the battle to the unstoppable night
Cooling in the dark of the wolfs muse
That howling place they rule with all their might

Blues lose out to the black
Deep and oh so dark
Quiet like some great predator
Rule absolute and oh so great
Giving out its boon to the animals of its domain
That will rule until the coming light

The same four notes haunt me,
Like the ghosts lost to the sea,
             Da
                                        Dah
                  ­  Doo
***            

Floyd flexing their synth might,
Their system tried and true,
Music to get lost in space to,
At least until I hit the Darkside of the Moon.

Someone seen before,
Your dark hair entrancing in the pleasant summer breeze,
In this place that seems both old and new.

Come a thousand miles,
To end up spellbound by your natural grace,
A look about you that invited natural curiosity,
With gentle eyes and kind words,
Quite literally causing me to stop in my tracks.

Kind words in a playful tone,
Heart a flutter,
Scaring the **** out of me in the process,
Not because you're trying to be hard to get,
But simply because you're so very hard to forget.

In my late night musings I'll imagine chasing after,
But that is after my painful trip back to the Midwest,
Leaving behind the town of tunnels and tea parties.

Thoughts turn inward,
As space between me and that haunting place is increased,
As a gentle rain begins to decend upon Seneca land.

Perhaps whatever messages I might have glimpsed of are all imaginary,
Or mayhaps you feel the same?
A corner to the great puzzle I didn't even know I missed.

At that great imaginary horizon of mine I can see just the tip of the obelisk to the east,
Silhouetted by the rising sun,
Standing as a marker for where I wish to be.

Lateralus is slicing through my mind like a hot blade through butter.
My ribs being hammered from the drums,
The bass thumping upon the sides of my head,
The guitar solo piercing my flesh like a spear.

The lone bass beat is what remains in my heart,
The steady thumping of a tough but tired *****,
The incoming vocals is a rush of adrenaline to the muscles,
The amalgamation of the instruments,
The effort to stand once again,
Then a guitar calling out from the distant mists,
The call of the next battle.

John Denver serenades me tonight,
As I **** down nicotine and ash,
My senses are alight,
My joy drawing from some infinite cache,
As I think back to Her,
To my run-in with Ms. Minnesota.

A jarring bump in of coincidence,
But not entirely unwelcome,
Your voice carried your smile,
The real thing was like telecom,
Broadcasting far and wide.

A resident of the once-glacial ridden plains,
But a call girl at heart,
I wonder if the waves call to your soul?

You're concerned that I have to drive home so late in the night,
And I secretly wonder if you're trying to disguise that you're sad to see me go,
But now that it's so late,
This bump-in unfortunately needed to end.

You wish me a goodnight,
And to you I do the same,
Probably with a goofy smile on my face,
I walk out of the front door,
And head on home.

I think of Ms. Minnesota,
And the goofy smile is back,
I certainly hope we meet again.

Their first gig,
Where they were headliners as opposed to being the opening act.

It had been a couple of months since they had formed,
And a couple of times they had almost lost their way.
But find their sound they did,
Improving all the while,
They had transformed into a solid opening band,
But no more,
It was their turn to shine.

5 minutes out,
The jitters were settling in,
The Frontman took a swig from his luke warm beer,
Trying to calm his shaky nerves.

The Bassist in the Drummer shared an amused look,
For they had been there before.

It was time,
The stage lights for the place burning bright,
And it is here that they tear into their first song with gusto.
Heartrendingly honest and raw,
For the Frontman it was a releasing of demons,
That held him back in the past,
Their hooks in our protagonist's flesh being ripped free,
The weight being lifted from his shoulders

The Frontman was finally set free.

Cruising through The Great Plains,
In a well traveled and well loved hatchback,
The calm rhythm of folk acoustics follow the gentle sloping motions the land takes as they travel
Clusters of trees off in the distance,
Looking like tidal waves in the evening sky,
Looking almost dark blue under a cloud filled sky,
Forming an ocean all their own.

When asked what ruck marches are like,
And I'm talking about those legendary light infantry ruck marches,
This is how I explain it:

Take your bedroom,
And try to shove it all into a military issue ruck sack,
Feeling impossible yet?
If so, you are on the right track.
If not, keep adding things to said rucksack until it does feel impossible.

You take a certain kind of baby powder and apply it to your neck, feet, groin, basically anywhere that's going to chafe (i.e. your entire body by the end)
Wrap your heels up, but not too much, because it's going to have to come off anyway,
after your heels start to bleed.

Put on your 2nd best pair of socks on,
Your best pair is for when you need a morale boost.

Put on your body armor,
But for the love of God don't use your inner elastic stap,
You won't be able to breath.

MAKE SURE YOU HYDRATE!!!
nuff said

Ensure you have all your kit and put it on the scale

...

98 pounds.
So add in body armor and your weapon, as well as ammunition and a carton of smokes,
You're looking at a cool 130 lbs (59 Kg),
More so if your a machine gunner, ammo bearer, or anti-armor specialists,
Which I usually was,
So I'd say add an extra 20 pounds (9 Kg)  to be safe.

Now you're all strapped up,
Your kit isn't slipping,
And nothing is pinching,
Take that unwieldy, difficult to disengage from silhouette,
And go on a 20 mile foot movement,
With expectation that you are going to get ambushed.

That's what a ruck is like.

Anthony Kedis is rolling like a runaway train,
His voice carrying too much momentum to be stopped,
He just keeps rolling down a track of guitar solos.
It's unusually hot here,
As I wipe sweat from my brow.

My bottle of water is sweating on the table,
My eyes are stinging from the heat and perspiration from my forehead.

Flea is laying it out hard,
His slaps on the bass with specific design.
It's almost time to go to bed,
Got to get back into a rhythm.

It is on this day,
The final day,
The last battle in the war that ended all my wars,
The final shot,
The final blast,
Full of rage, sorrow, and lore.
It is in the moments,
These final moments,
In which I'd reflect upon it all,
The joy, the sorrow, the laughter, and the tears,
In remembrance of those that had fall.
And when the cannons fell mute, & the rifles went still,
In realization it had dawn,
That when the darkness came,
We fought deaths game,
And those that claimed victory would have to go on.

Am I going insane?
Or do I hear a track playing in the background of Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm going to leave you"?
Around the 1:42 mark,
Hiding right below the guitar,
Playing whisper soft,
Plant is crying out something,
Something too soft to decipher.

I hope I'm not hearing things

Pain ignites,
Your shoulders and biceps set ablaze to to the beat,
To this resurrected tune from the plantations of long ago,
A specter that hangs over the shoulder  when heard.

Up,
Down,
Hold that ****,
And you start to think this Sally chick might just be a real cold *****.

Up,
Down,
Rinse and repeat the pain.

It's just 30 reps,
Why is it so infernally difficult?
Up,
Down,
Hold,
The pressure builds in your muscles and your brain,
Pratcher & the Gardeners heedless of your pain.

The last chorus,
Just a little bit more,
Is it just you or is the music slowing?

The women are weeping,
At the poor departure of poor ol' Luxe.

The song cuts,
You sigh in relief,
As your body crumples on its own accord,
Sick of your efforts and insanity.

Call in the kids from the yard,
Won't you love?
Supper is ready,
And the table is set.

Our children run in,
Excited to tell us all about their day,
Of school subjects they're excited about,
And all the new friends they met.

You look at me with an amused look in your eyes,
When they complain about their troubles,
As if it will be the hardest thing they'll ever face,
And I smirk too, amused as well but also filled with melancholy.

I open my eyes,
And I look over to see you sleeping next to me,
And I look back at the dream I just had.

No,
Not a dream,
Just a glimpse into the future,
Just around the bend...

The night is still,
A silent cold hangs crisply in the air,
A quilt of noiselessness encases the world,
Looking up upon the stars,
So dazzling in the pre-dawn air.

The moon hangs over the Eastern Horizon,
Just a sliver alit along it's bottom edge.

As the world slowly begins to stir,
Slowly cracking the sky and setting it aflame,
An all encompassing blaze that kisses upon my brow,
Warm and caring,
Loving and tender,
Like that of a mother to a newborn babe.

It is here that one can be at peace,
Where the current troubles slip away like steam from an exhaled breath in this crisp warm air.

The clacking of metal as components are slid into place,
The precision machining of the parts would make a novice go nuts,
But this isn't my first rodeo,
Using the buttstock to hammer out a pin that has a tendency to stick,
Then the feedtray cover is freed.

The components are checked up on,
Scraped free of carbon if any is found,
With a homemade tool that works better than any you could purchase.

CLP is applied lightly,
An old rag used to clean up any excess liquid.

With the same amount of precision and care is used to assemble her,
Piece by piece,
A symphony of moving parts and deft finger movements.

Functions check complete,
This Lady is ready to dance.

Oh how I wonder,
How Napoleon felt on that ship,
Seeing the coast of his beloved France recede into the distance,
Never to be seen again?

How did it feel,
When the Emperor stared out,
Upon the ocean and horizon
The salted spray that kissed St Helena,
Also kissing his brow?

In those last days,
Did he recall his beloved France?
Did he visit his men and subjects,
Did he see it in his mind?

In those final hours,
Did he hear the people chant,
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!
Did he hear his army sing Le Chant du Départ one final time?

Upon the arrival of that grande finale,
The final moment,
The End,
Did he think of François and Léon as much as Josephine?
Did he feel that laurel-wreath upon his head one last time?

Was he scared?

Sorrowful and soulful sounds come from the radio,
The Red Headed Stranger is plucking away on Trigger,
A whole different kind of cowboy.

Singing of times long past,
Of a woman long gone,
A woman he wish had stayed.

I use the last of my beer to walk down the smoke and ash,
Stubbing out my smoke atop a mountain of finished Winstons.

I look back on it now,
On the regrets that I've had so far.

Of trips not taken,
The could-have-beens that went undone,
And the Ones that had been let slip,
So it is here I find myself,
Drinking alone on this warm summer midnight.

How do you describe a songs meaning,
If it's something that to each individual it means something different?

To one it's a song to play at a wedding,
Another another it is to be played at their funeral,
To some it's something drunkenly blundered through with your buddies at the bar when your hammered,
To others it's something that's best played quietly on the radio at night.

To me it's a song about a perfect Florida night,
Standing on the beach with my toes buried in the sand,
Staring up at a star sparkled sky,
Creating a dichotomy of images that leap out at me in full color,
When the vertigo finally breaks,
Rocketing my body into space and the constellations beyond,
Beautiful sights never to be seen or studied again,
Each an individual beauty to be marveled at for but a second,
Before being forever lost,
Then being slammed back down to earth again,
Gaining momentum more and more,
Wind that shouldn't be in space forcing me to shut my eyes against it's sting.

Finally reaching earth and breaking through the atmosphere,
A fire from the friction trailing behind me a mile long,
Streaking across the Pacific and the Western US in a blink,
Hurtling at Florida with speeds that induce a pucker factor of 10.

Faster still,
And the beach is soon in sight,
Breaching the horizon that was made by the gulf.

Tearing in many times past the speed of sound,
My impact into the sand leaves a grader that forever changes the coastline,
Driving me deep into the earth crust.

...

I open my eyes,
As I look up from where I lay on that Florida beach,
Feeling in one piece and whole again.

How's your heart,
If your heart was a tank of gasoline?
Is it full of rich, high octane jet fuel?
Or is it sputtering,
With only the dregs of several month old junk at the bottom?
Filled with iron oxide sediment and dirt?

They sit in their little metal box,
A shell made for just the 4 of them,
Protected from the traditional claws and teeth of war,
But a deadly ***** in it's armor,
Easily exploited they can be.

Their little metal box is hot,
They're all slim,
The hatches are small,
The seats cramped,
You'll never see a fat tanker.

Close they are,
Close enough to operate like the intricate machine they pilot,
Words barely needed,
Maybe a grunt or a hand gesture will suffice.

I feel like I'm climbing a rope that's going up a waterfall,
With a hand tied behind my back,
It's all I can do to simply not drown,
Let alone to not be swatted down from the hammer-like blows of water upon my shoulder, head, and hand.

I feel like my grip is slipping,
I could really use a hand,
I wonder where you're at now in your life,
As I try with all my strength to hold on for mine,
Did you move out west like you wanted?
To learn to surf near Santa Monica?
And learn a new language?

I wished you the best,
And now I wish you'd stayed.

Why is it I always find myself writing on here,
When there's only 15% battery power left?
Almost like a creative procrastination,
Perhaps even delinquency.

Is it because the absolute hatred for endings?
Of being scared of the future,
Whilst being excited for it at the same time.

Sitting there smoking that last cigarette in the car,
Preparing for bed early for once,
In order to get a jump on the day.

Applications sent and the feeling of a long haul starting,
But with a bared grin of anticipation for the challenges ahead,
Revelling the struggle to come.

Years have passed,
Time an enemy that cannot be conquered,
Leaving heros to be quietly forgotten.

The Prince is older now then when he started this self imposed exile,
Golden hair grown out,
Lines showing signs of setting deep on a once youthful face,
Adorned in a cloak to better conceal himself from recognition.

The Queen,
Old now,
Sitting stooped upon the Cursed throne,
The only one left with claim over it,
Heedless of the consequences of her own pride and greed.

As the distance greatens,
The Prince sheds his cloak,
His slip into anonymity complete,
He stops to look behind him,
To gaze upon the watchers,
Their careful gaze taking in all.

Always silent before,
Never to judge,
Just to bear witness to the acts of all,
And now the watchers call out.

The Travelers heart aches,
Upon such a sorrowful sound,
A last gift given to the man in ancient tongue,
A key to success in the Travels future,
And then the traveler walks on.

The Old Queen receives word from the Traveler,
Sharing his knowledge imparted to him by the Watchers,
But only for him to not realize it is knowledge delivered too late,
The Curse would not be lifted in time

The Traveler pauses at the beginning of the Mountain path,
Seeing the beautiful range starting  just a mile off,
A welcomed change,
To give away the Watchers gift to others as well.

The days grow long,
But many sights are beholden to the Traveler,
So many things to see,
Beauty of the journey not lost on him as he still silently mourns his home

Ages pass,
Great deeds are accomplished,
Friends made,
Loves lost,
Wisdom gained,
Muscles lost,
Eyes dulled a bit,
As adventures slowed down,
And the travelers name is lost to time.

Roots are formed,
Set atop the tallest mountain,
Not far from a kingdom,
Set in the valley below,
Not too different from his home,
The one left behind too long ago.

The Hermit takes the Travelers place.

Stan Roger's is calling out to the start sky on this moonlit night,
His baritone cadence stretching through the pleasantly tempered air.

I take another smoke out,
Lighting it quickly and taking a drag,
Trying  to figure out where all the time went,
It's as though I've blinked and everything has changed.

It's been happening for a long time,
I know,
But then again,
That's how it always is,
Isn't it?
Taking note unconsciously,
But never taking notice,
For it's change is too unwelcome.

But for now all is quiet,
The owls hooting amongst themselves,
As a breeze gently passes by.

Sitting out on the dock,
So late even the bugs are mostly asleep,
Puffing on the last cigarette I brought down with me,
Taking in the brilliance of lake stars,
And the shimmering mirage-like reflections of the resort across the cove.

Two owls conversing somewhere up the lake,
Their soft calls echoing endlessly across the flooded valley's waters,
Forever a part of the lakes empty nocternal orchestra.

Soft laps of water as the denizens of the deep come out to eat,
As the fall breezes begin in earnest,
Bringing a slight chill like an indicator of the winter to come.

The crickets chirping a tune to the spiders as they weave their webs,
As a blinking green light of a lone boat chugs gently north,
A witness to this early-morning delight like me.

Stars so much more visible,
But not quite like what they are in the wilds of the north,
Twinkling becons of long dead planets and age old messages,
Ones that tell us how small we really are.

It's like slow motion,
Much like a train derailing,
You can't bring yourself to look away,
As the fist flies toward your face.

As soon as the foreign limb makes contact  with your cheek,
It seems like someone pressed the fast forward button,
Because you seem to retaliate immediately,
Over and over,
As more blows are returned to your head and sides.

You throw your weight forward,
Catching them off balance as they were on their heels,
Wrapping them up around the midsection in a picture perfect tackle.

You both go flying out the front door and into the street,
Both struggling to your feet,
Both you and your opponent's friends pull each other apart,
And make haste to leave before the cops arrive.

A sweet saga sung,
A cigarette crackles as it ignites,
A tale tragic for my lungs,
But chemicals rush through the brain setting it alight.

Sweet accents to the tune as the tale unfolds,
As our hero's story unfolds,
A bittersweet departure,
Kept apart,
Held at bay by ideology and circumstance.

But a darkness approaches,
A dark fate comes closer,
To destroy them all,
And she orders her opposite to take her bow,
Standing shoulder to shoulder to bear the brunt of the storm.

The dark haze creep in the Valley,
Eyes peeled to the east for their only chance to survive to hold out,
Already morning the orchards that would soon be lost.

The rot begins to spread,
Grotesquely twisting the trees as they shrivel and waste away,
The scion of the ****** angered at the pyrrhic victory.

The long night bringing a great battle,
The feral calls are cried,
They meet in a great clash of steel and magic,
In a secret war away from private eyes,
How can just one battle last so long?

Armor is rent asunder as weapons are damaged and woundss attained,
The Scion steps forward with a sword set ablaze,
And the woman lies bloodied off to the side,
The warrior lays set with her bow pulled and arrow drawned back,
Her aiding him even after she was taken off the board.

The Scion draws closer still,
His face finally shown to him,
As the symbols of the before set aglow along the bow,
The arrow is loosed,
Sending it along it's trajectory as the sun finally climbs from the east, washing everything in light.

Actually got some sleep,
Surprise surprise to all,
The thunderstorm raged throughout the night,
The clap accompanying the flash so loud it would awake others,
But it I find relaxing,

I awoke to it being dark outside,
Which I found odd, considering when I awoke dawn had passed an hour ago.
The clouds so dark that it would cancel the sunlight.

When I was a child my parents took our family to Florida,
To see for the first time ocean and sand.
One day it was to storm in the afternoon,
The front coming in from the gulf,
So right after lunch we went to the beach,
To watch the storm come in.

Clouds of ashen gray and inky black,
Towering miles high,
All you could see was this wall of nature's wrath, stretching as far as you could see north and south.

I had been awestruck by the power of the world's forces,
Of the way the proverbial slate could be wiped clean,
But for now I'll just sit here and smoke,
Watching the early morning rain.

Draper's voice is lulling me to sleep on this night,
Singing an old gospel that brings water to my eyes,
Bringing forth memories that are warm and bright,
Along with the realization of just how fast time flies.

A fantastical opening,
But I cant tell whether it's tone is genuinely happy or bittersweet,
For a pinnacle that would soon begin to descend,
Waters and the whole troop carry on,
Singing of a beautiful and terrible place,
A place where one's own failure can be due to one's own success,
Whether that's good or bad I leave for to you to decide.

I see you all,
You night owls,
Perched up high in your trees,
Wide awake in the darkest of hours,
Hunting for the words that hasten the dawn and sleep,
For the words that will set you free.

Crash!!!!
As a boy regains consciousness,
All the boy can see is the blood mixing into the muddy water,
As the rain begins to fall.
The boy scrambles are round  the twisted wreck of the car,
From which he had been thrown from,
To find the one he loved in terrible condition.

The boy begs her to wake up, but she refuses to open her eyes,
A small trickle of blood crawling up her forehead,
As she hangs lifeless from her seatbelt.

When the young man arrived into town,
his throat was very dry,
So he wandered into the closest bar.

It was dark and dingy,
But at the same time vibrant and alive, For a band played in the back.

Just a few younger individuals,
Vibrant and lively,
Rocking as if playing for sold out Stadium,
Instead of a bar of six.

It was then that the young man had his idea,
Notes rushing to him like cascade,
And the realization that music was where he was happiest,
It's what fill the hole in his heart.

He left the bar, knowing what he had to do,
His passion was reignited,
The flames fanned.

A goal now set,
Young man went to the bus station and continued West.

Look at you in your wide brim hat,
Dressed in black,
Fingers dancing across the Strat's neck,
Easy as you please.
Voice of anguish and whiskey,
Telling me a story of one lost long ago.

I sit listening quietly, as the rain falls outside,
And a train can be heard lumbering across the tracks.

Your words take shape,
Odd stranger,
With hair long and black,
The shape is of a man recently sent free,
Deciding to walk through the roughest place in town.

I need a drink,
I take a swig,
The smell of pine like smelling salts for my brain,
The taste of fireworks and Christmas trees reminiscent of candies eaten on Halloween nights.


Then BAM!
You yell out,
Telling me of a poor dice rollers fate,
Like a siren's call,
******* me back into this sad, sad narrative.


And lastly of the visit,
The one dated to seal the protagonist's fate,
Of the freed man once again being put into chains,
A tale of Sisyphus best personified.

You lead off,
Leaving the bar room cold and empty.
I slide in another couple quarters,
And again you begin to play.

It's been too long,
Need to blow proverbial dust off my works,
Inspiration struck like lightning,
Like the sensation of hearing a song from your favorite band that you never heard before,
From when they were younger,
Their faces with so fewer lines.

Faster and faster,
For you never know when this new song is going to end,
Only that in the here and now lies you,
The you that is most present for all the major things,
Here for some of the victories but all of the defeats,
The tides are rising friend,
Do you need to be thrown a rope?

The solo is hitting now,
The song soon reaching it's conclusion,
But it's when that favorite band of yours is younger,
Full of **** and vinegar and ******* attitude,
Crescendo!

Slowing down,
Let it all echo out,
Gotta mellow the tune,
To reach a natural conclusion and peaceful end,
Leaving your enthralled ears graced with the fading of the wave's...

...

...

...

You hit replay.

Alone a tired man writes,
The scratches of pencil on paper his only companion in the room,
Writing down his experiences,
Hoping someone will read them one day.

His shoulders are slightly slumped,
As if weighted down by all he has seen and done,
A physical presence that never leaves him,
A great yet terrible burden he bared.

His once -sharp eyes are slightly dulled,
As if to filter the things he now sees,
Through the tint that is the past.

His hair is grey,
The dark hair he once had long since changed,
A new grey hair with every lesson learned,
Lessons he writes down.

Scars can be easily seen on his tan skin,
Traversing from his gnarled fingers,
Up across the backs of his hands and disappearing up past his elbows,
Hidden by his rolled up sleeves,
A roadmap of past knicks, cuts, and mistakes.

The scratching continues in the room,
With pauses only for him to put a filled piece of paper into the growing stack,
Drawing a blank one and continue writing once again.

Across the smoky air the wave's travel,
Ihor is singing again,
Rocking out on a ****** out tune.

My lungs are burning,
Trying to contain hot ash and air,
Starving for oxygen as the chemicals seep deep.

The factory behind the house still clanging from after-hours operations,
A rhythmic heartbeat of production coinciding with that of the sleeping earth,
A tempo unheard and unfelt,
But ever present,
For how is one there if not but by the grace of the other?

Ask a vet, if there were three things they didn't have enough of.
The core of it all would boil down to these:

Never enough time,
Never enough bodies,
Never enough bullets.

A farmer comes to love what he grows,
Even if it is just a bit,
So much effort expended,
Something has to be felt,

Warm late summer days,
Soaked in a warmth you imagine a mandolin sound would give off if it could,
Lazy clouds floating across an blue immersive sky,
Sitting underneath a tree surrounded by four fields,
The tickling of healthy grass scrunched beneath one's feet,
A gently breeze on occasion,
Brushing across one's face,
As if to lull you into a peaceful sleep.

Riding alone along that famous desert road,
Heading west for a new page,
To reap what could be sowed,
A opportunity rare in this day and age.

Eyes growing weary,
And like a mirage it does appear,
A place to make the head unbleary,
Where one can cast aside one's doubts and fears.

So alone in the journey it makes knees nearly buckle,
A sirens call is heeded,
Tempting with sultry eyes and unspoken promises.

In a haze stumbling forward,
Not aware of the dangers present,
That the boat was being lead shoreward,
To be dashed upon a jagged outcropping's crescent.

It is here one gets ******,
Like a fish when it realized it's been hooked,
That the risks are everywhere,
Like stumbling into a minefield,
Not recognizing the risks until halfway across.

It's enough to bring the brakes to a screeching halt,
The sudden sound warbling through the empty desert air,
Kicking up clouds of sandand salt,
Seeing to one's horror that there is nothing really there.

It's enough to ***** off even the most steady,
To be tricked by the wraiths of the land,
One had to speed across these parts ever at the ready,
Otherwise they invite disaster and ruin,
As they oft walk hand-in-hand.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never look back,
And don't need the sirens call,
None of it is real.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never try to get to the shack,
It doesn't contain what you think you lack,
Just the fires and poisons of your enemies,
Those enemies of your past.

Gravity must be especially heavy on my exact spot,
For I feel like I'm glued to my seat,
I found a record,
Ridiculously pristine,
It's of some symphonic orchestra,
And it's made my eyes water a bit.

I don't know what prompted it,
I just felt my face after listening to it to realize that my eyes were quite damp.

The piano piece was heartbreaking,
Clearly an excellent conductor,
I can't find any real labels on it,
And it appears to be very old.

10%... Not long to go

Puffy white glaciers crawl lazily across the sky,
The buzzing of flies and the smell of freshly cut grass,
The puffs of dandelion seeds floating across the field,
The cool breeze refreshing to heated faces,
Sky a pleasant Infantry Blue.

They say that the stairway to heaven is long and precarious, and some say it never ends.

I can't remember who first told me that,
And I can't find any reference to it,
Believe me I've looked.

Robert plan is informing me of the woman now,
After being led in by the acoustic guitar and flutes,
Foolish woman,
Learning at the very last minute,
That her life was a waste and her hoards of wealth mean nothing to her now.

Plant says that this song can have as many meanings as stars in the sky.

Nice thoughts to start a run to.

My darling son,
I write this one for you.

You're so far away,
Still so many months from meeting you,
And meeting the man you will be.

I can't wait to see your first steps,
To hear your first words,
To take you trick-or-treating the first time,
To absolutely embarrass you with my antics.

Will you like music like me,
Will you be as sharp-witted as your mother,
Will you be as much of a hellion as your old man,
Will you be as ambitious as the woman I've come to love so much.

What will be your favorite sport,
if you like them at all,
What will your greatest fear be,
And how can I help you conquer it?

You know you already have scared the living **** out of me approximately times,
And that made your mother laugh each time,
I swore to her that I wouldn't be a worrier,
But we both knew I was lying.
How many more heart-stopping moments do you have planned for me, I wonder?

How many times do you think I'm too strict,
That I make your life unfair,
That I just need to chill a little bit?
How many times do you think I'm a stick in the mud,
Not knowing I was a steely-eyed warrior,
Who traded in his sword for a swaddle blanket,
And his bullets for a Babybjorn,
Doing so with a smile on my face.

I look to the far future,
Where I see you in a suit,
Some of your best friends by your side,
Nervously awaiting the arrival of your bride,
In this glimpse you glance over at me,
And you'll see I am so happy.

Looking further,
You'll be in scrubs,
Perhaps with an unshed tear in your eye,
And tell your mother and eye that your own son is born,
That my son,
Will have my heart so filled with pride.

But that is so far away,
My Boy,
And for now I just await to hold you,
And shed a tear of my own.

My son,
We can't wait to show you how wonderful this world can be.

Soaring high above the tops of the clouds,
Towards a destination few dates to go,
A return if sorts to a life that would be both old and new.

The moon reflects across the ice crystals below,
Giving it an etherial glow,
Their tops shorn flat by the wind,
Giving the appearance of a calm lake in the summer,
Like glass from another realm.

A decision was made,
A war still raging inside the heart,
As new obstacles are thrown up.

Willingly leaving family behind to throw one's self into danger,
To put service before self once again.

That great apex has been reached,
And one can feel the descent,
To skip upon that lake top,
Gradually sinking through like the proverbial stone,
To arrive at the next leg of the trip.

It is only after the ultimate sacrifice by the hero,
That the rewards are to be reaped,
And that just astounds me.

Because it is in these stories that the sacrifices are made just after the hero finally has a chance to become redeemed or to have finally experienced life.

Rage can come on many forms,
I classify rage as an angry form of grief,
Why grief you ask?
Because rage is a sort of emotion that has sharp hooks that dig into your heart,
It changes your behavior,
And it isn't good for you,
And 90% of the time the only way to end it is to let the fire just burn itself out.

But changing gears now,
What would you do if you were to realize you were the bad guy in the play that is your life?

When do the justifications end and justice actually gets served?

Ice clinking,
Cool liquid touching lips,
The familiar of ethanol biting the back of my throat where some remains.
Percussive,
Repetitive,
Hypnotic.

A soft strum of a ukulele  breaks that pattern,
Accompanying the beautiful wails that I know will haunt my dreams,
As assuredly as the person who she wails over will haunt hers,
If she can sleep at all that is.

It's staccato rhythm is almost primal,
Like an erratic heartbeat,
Driving the song with time signature changes,
It's unpredictablilty works well,
Xylophone notes giving it an etherial-like quality,
As if to give me a feel that I'm in a dream,
In the sleep that evades me so.

Their voices sound forgiving,
Almost begging,
But their words relay a bitterness,
Who was it that scorned them so?

As the song draws to a close,
It fades off as if the band has finally drifted off into the sleep they craved so.

When I was younger he was stronger than Superman to me,
Wiser than Albert Einstein,
And funnier than a book of knock knock jokes,
A constant in the ever changing experience that it is to be a kid.

As I grew older he gained a couple new facets,
He at times became a source of ire to my teenage mind,
But patience was one of those attributes that never changed,
Although at times I more than likely stretched it to it's very limits.

And as I became an adult it clicked,
And it was like it was before,
Any previous tensions were wiped away,
Connected again after a few years of being gone,
Many a Friday night's spent just drinking beers,
Shooting the **** and listening to vinyls that he bought in high school.
Sometimes just sitting quietly smoking,
The silence a place we could both find solace in.

And now I am slapped with a harsh truth,
That he's not invincible,
That anchor won't be there forever,
That even Superman is mortal.

That a man I've seen endure the impossible with barely a muttered curse and a grimace just for spite,
Could contemplate throwing in the towel.

Talk about a shift of paradigm, right?

All because of something I never planned for, even though it comes to us all.