Bare feet scuttle around on marbled floors

Painting muddy footprints on the white canvas.

Onlookers walk by in disgust, their noses in

The air as they click their heels in an effort

To avoid the unbecoming scene before them.


The feet are callused and shred, imprints of

Pebbles forever etched into the raw flesh

Of their nakedness. Was it worth it?

Yes. It should be.

It will be.


The gritty pavement is as hot as the

Sun, a burning star, a supernova lifetimes

Away. Their yellowed teeth are clenched tightly;

They are determined to stand despite the furious

Pain slowly eating its way into the

Soles of their feet.


Many scars and scratches from roads they have

Traveled are scattered across the bareness;

They are proud, for it is their art,

That is the measurement

Of their life.


At last, the final goodbye from the scorching day

Kisses their heads in a bittersweet farewell

And You see them smiling in the dark,

Blue eyes glowing with a brilliance You have

Never seen before. They are eager to

Run with their bare, misshapen feet

And jump with all their strength into the

Watery depths below.

You look around.

They are splashing in the waves,

The cool ocean soothing the pains

Of the day.

The corner of Your lip upturns with

A hint of a smile.

This is how they live.

And this is who they are.


Who then are you going to be?

It sat there, as still as the dead, waiting. It had to keep very still; it was listening, waiting for the right feeling. It checked, cocking its head to the side. Nothing yet. If it could huff, it would have. It had been there all day yesterday and all night. Waiting. It shook its head; the sun would surely be out soon. It suddenly felt a bit insecure – would all this work, this art it had worked so hard to build, be for nothing? It shifted its spindly legs; it was getting uncomfortable just waiting. It stretched them out long, then retracted them once again. It was still listening; still waiting. How much time had passed? A minute? Two? An hour? It wished it could tell time. Yet, it acknowledged, it didn’t need to. It could make art, and it could eat and it could walk. That was enough it really needed, in the end. It admired its artwork this time – really admired it, with its sweeping symmetry and complex patterns. It had simply outdone itself. It felt quite proud, and might’ve rubbed its legs together for joy, if it had not been for the small vibration it felt. It paused. It titled its head left, maybe it could hear more that way. Nothing.

No; wait. There was something…yes! It licked its lips.

Quickly and with so much joy it could hardly contain itself, it scrambled up from its position between the apex of the leaning wooden shovel and the wooden wall of the little shack. It felt the vibrations more furtively now, and that just made it crawl all the faster. It scurried until it finally reached its prey.

Once, it almost felt sorry for the poor thing. But that once had been long ago, and now, it knew the wickedness of the world all too well. It had to take every chance it got when it came to spinning. It approached the buzzing creature with compassion. It spoke in hushed tones as it slowly wound the fly in its silk – a soft lullaby of peace and serenity. The fly seemed to like this, for it yawned and almost drifted asleep. Slowly, so very slowly, the fly’s multi-lensed eyes drifted closed, a calmness coursing through its body. Suddenly, the fly's eyes burst wide open.

Oh, the taste! What a delicacy this was, oh what wonderful juice! It lost itself in a haze of crimson. Nearly torn apart in ecstasy, it smiled, teeth glowing with what little moonlight there was. The fly stared back at it, aghast and eyes filled with cold, dead fear.

This was its favorite part.

Dinner.

What a weary traveller am I

As I look back to the path I have followed.

There were many ditches,

many turns,

many ruts,

and many stitches.

Yes, the path I have taken

has tears of pain forming salty rivers,

and spikes of anger growing ****** thorns.

I do not regret treading down this path

But if I were to regret something,

it would be that I never stopped to think and wonder:

Why must I venture down this road alone?

Not only would the path I had taken

been lacking the lone

but at last I would have someone to share it with.

I am sitting up in a bed of lace duvets, their yellowed hues glowing in the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the lone window. The room is musty, old, and smells faintly of the sea. As I tilt my head back and close my eyes, another scent, this time one of cherry blossoms and pears, fills my nostrils; this is my grandmother's bedroom. The walls are almost an off-white, a dull green tint the only memory of the color they once bore brightly. Birds are chirping, and I can hear the faint sound of fluttering outside the ancient window. A bluebird, perking up its feathers, sings its cheerful melody as it sits perched on the ledge. I smile at it, and it seems to bob its head, cocking its face towards me, as if in that one strange instant, it understood. The bluebird pauses for a moment before flitting away to his friends, eagerly feasting on the myriad of feeders hanging low on tree branches close by. Sighing, I lean back once again on the antique, yellowed bed frame, breathing in the familiar scent of the old white pillows. Slight violin music drifts in from the radio in the other room where my grandmother sits, silently knitting a surprise my sister will adore. The violin sings a song of a via dolorosa, of a crestfallen love that could never ensue, but still shone brilliantly. Tenderly, I pick up the book I'd been reading, carefully running my small fingers along its fragile spine, burying the aged pages in my nose, breathing in its rich aroma. The words take me to magical places, far-off worlds, daring adventures, the promise of mystery at every turn. For that is what a book is, is it not? A mystery waiting to be solved, a story that can transform the hearts of millions, a love that can spring up from even the driest of deserts...all that in the beautiful simplicity of words, words from the human soul itself, words that portray the depths in which the heart can swim against the coursing currents, the heights at which the soul can fly amidst the coming storm. I am flying now, on my way to Neverland, Oz, Camelot, The Hundred Acre Wood, 221B Baker Street, River Heights, Hong Kong, Camazotz, a secret garden.. I am the bluebird, flying high above everything else, traveling to unknown worlds of intoxicating adventure, experiencing
sorrow,
friendship,
love,
heartbreak,
joy,
death,
envy,
rage,
empathy,
horror,
romance,
terror,
and curiosity...
...all in time to be home for dinner.

I fall. Faster. Faster still.
The wind hurts my ears.
I think they're bleeding.
I can't see the ground.
I'm falling, and I don't know where.
I don't know. But, do I want to know?

I don't know many things.
I don't know what went wrong between us.
I don't know how our worlds are so silent.
I don't know how I'm even here.

I'm falling. I know that.
I don't know where.
I just wish I knew why.