Nothing.

Blank.

Unwritten.

For now.

All that is seen is unreal. Or perhaps unrealized.

Shadows in the forefront of my forged habitat do not reflect the foreshadowing of my future.

Being so heavy on my heart, like an elevator car hanging wildly from my bruised shoulders.

Home.

The serene canvas that cradles the impetus of all my sudden impulses of comfort.

Now.

Trusted by the heart to hold itself, the frigid sound in the air surrounding, grips tighter than imagined.

Unable to catch a breath, but unable to fall out of reach.

Pushing up with hands, so much my own, they are hardly recognizable.

The world trembles while I stand.

On my knees, and as always, on my toes.

Balancing on the cracks in the Pavement as if I was but a child.

Alas.

For now, a child but I am.

Unwritten, a man.

Blank, a new canvas to count time.

Nothing, will stop me.

-A.B.

In the park
sits the Man
with his box
in his hand

The Woman
draped gracefully
next to him

Frail they may be
his fingers
sing three

Of the songs
from within
his heart.

The Woman wriggles
and dances
and calls out with glee

To the passers
she says
"Have you heard such a thing?"

The Man hears
her sighs
with a gleam
in his eyes

He plays
his three songs
for She.

The smiling faces

are getting me through this life,

full of sleepless nights.