~
A scribbled note passed
from one insider to the next.

The day she runs out of people
she'll conference with birds,
fall asleep a child
and wake up a woman,
broadcasting from home
on the night in question.

A hundred years from today,
she'll hold on to dead flowers
from the fairground encounter.

She will avoid the bridge,
circle instead around
the walls of Jericho.

She'll write upon the wall
like it was her heart.
~

If your heart breaks
Into so many pieces
Are you allowed
To pick any
Of
Them
Up?
Or do you
Leave
Them
Be?

I do not write of sunsets,
Those farewells of weary days.

I will not speak again of forests
Or golden sunlit glades.

I have said my piece on oceans.
Brokered peace among the flame.

I have walked many an idyllic garden
To find each flower's scent the same.

At times the grass appears the greener,
A feature of how light strikes the blade.

The sabre seems as great a teacher
In the sunshine as the shade.

So I shall write again no more of sunsets
Those farewells of weary days.

I lay down arms against the evening.

To the dreaming

I cast my gaze.