A Terran, a Musician, and a Human walk into a bar and begin to converse in their unique animated fashions.  The Terran told colorful, heavily gestured stories of just how vast, vivid, and desolate, the world can be with adventurous direction and a little bit of luck.  The Musician listened intently and shared personal records of revolving themes and repetitive transcendence.  For Musician, it is simply a twist of perspective.  Then followed a volley of indiscriminate compliments between Human and Terran as Musician earned a few donations of an open microphone on this Friday afternoon.  When Musician returned with concerns of quality and substance, the enlightened friends had both agreed that the rehearsal was finely tuned, impeccable, even.  
     Shy and humming, Human was slightly disconcerting to their boisterous Terran and had to ask about those interests and talents that had not been discussed yet.  Human's eyes froze in small expansion though Musician concurred, compliments are fine but withholding one's self is an insult and a crime to all three beings in such a warmed gathering.  Human began with a facile face, then addled, as if a place to start had muddied underneath solid progressive counterparts.  At last, resolve returned with a solution to try at the open microphone first, mayhaps that would clear the meek performer's mind.  The invoked spirit of clarity overflowed beyond the stage as a silver silence engulfed the barroom.  Human's history was bursting of sky sharing resonant respiration once the song was sung from a place more real than truth.

Hello again my cute little coy butterfly net
I know that with time you may fray and fret
Though I wonder at which it is you wake to yearn
To be re-woven by one's intricate concern
Or the display of versatile reverberant things?
I recall your temporary retention of those beautiful wings
Your cornice of vivid vitality forever vicarious
Are you- the gentle jailer, nervous ******, or simply fastidious?
Those lives that you catch into your fluttering heart,
I suppose they may change you when pinned and ripped apart
Whether that be or they are released to fly free
In what you have yet to see spins your sense of serenity
So forget them, when you remember your demure nature
For history is just a child caught in sincere nomenclature.




Shakespeare's Sonnet #9

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
   No love toward others in that ***** sits
   That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

Hold it fast
There is a current pulling
On the other end
Stay true
And that gold thread
Will shimmer through all that blue

He is not invincible
He is a word
And as sure,
As language trends
Man is a word
That changes with ends

An imprint in the dust
Tells a story, it must
So it goes on, the impression
Shifts and sifts in fission
Each syllable a worthy mention
Every step, a tale of tension
Lifts, begins- drifts and bends
To a point where inertia lends
A new start and a chance to turn,
Yet reward of light is where we yearn.

What of that reflective string
The last buried piece of shining
Trail has led your heels astray
There is no sand or dust that way
Only the feared fabled deep blue
Calm palms and toes can still walk through

Hold it fast, and forget our steps
Let them thread a new friend's depth
And when current grips in cold death.
We may dance with it, in a simple breath.

Is this useless?
Am I useless?
Are doubts the mark of wisdom?
As the wise sit and wait.
The greatest advice I heard,
For my family to lift my chin
For my shoulders to lift our backs,

Is that the ground has nothing for eyes.
With one last look around I noticed why,
This debris is interesting, but deprived.
Stories. From what is left behind.
The beginnings of my deductive empathy
Sound like the pauses in my discrepancy
And sure, these countless questions can lead to great things
But when should I release my reticence for my wings?
Another twinge in rhetoric,
A singe in my time's tick

I must look up from the path to see my own,
There is no use in musing at buried bone.
A miser of different dirts will become rich among rubble.
Not believing that anything is worth its trouble,
Is a mark of death, not wisdom.
I am sorry for not seeing this prison.