If a tree fell in the woods and spoke to me – I wonder if the words will mimic the ones printed in the books it turns into,
or if the wisdom will be reminiscent of its number of rings,
I lost count at 23 –
The age you were when you wanted to tie the other end of the rope around the braches,
you saw them reaching out to the sky,
a serendipitous commonplace in your eyes,
well I’m thankful that the tree came down with the storm and that you found your footing among the leaves.
                              
                                               Believe me when I say --
That I never meant to tell you to speak out of my own need to make my life better than it should be,
I just wanted to make it okay--
To let you tell the truth instead of telling only what you thought you wanted me to hear you say.
                                                  You were afraid --
That the thoughts in your head and the rings in your trees made you unfit for this world,
and that the city’s ambience would always drown out the gusts of wind at the shores of Walden.
That no distance to run would take you far enough away to find ears to hear of your suffering,
I promise that I’ve never been more pleased to say you’re wrong.

My mind feels like a drought --
a conscious lack of thought about the harvest,
it's been ignored,
untouched,
unquestioned,
and "unburdened".

But it still remains a nostalgic sight to those who pass by and see its brown grass,
its veiny leaves,
its weeds in the concrete --
I walk quietly along with music in my headphones, wondering if it's loud enough to drown the guilt of my self-induced disparity and my disinterest in the sustenance I need to be more than just a warm seat in the room,
but rather a warm blanket to the homeless.

All I know is that the next page is blank,
and that a blank page is still opportunity.

You're like an inner-city passerby,
a cold shoulder to my warm welcoming heart now covered in black,
my lungs filled with smoke every time you walked out.
For when we lied in the grass there was no need for a blanket,
we had each other.
When we stared at the sky we didn't mind that the moon was not full.

But you've cried so much in your memory of me I must flicker like a film projector.
Now the reel has ended and the celluloid snakes around the floor giving new home to the dust and the critters.
It weaves around like playground slides, a reminder of the days that I didn't have to worry about the pain that comes with love and the inevitable love that grows out of sorrow (a pretty flower, but in shattered pottery).

I can only imagine the solace my laughs and smiles created as I bathed in dirt and wood chips.  
I felt the wind in my growing hair as I went down the slides and on the swings with a beat in my heart and music on my lips.

I still sing those songs to this day --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise.

But I don't sing them to remember I sing them to forget (if only I could).

Because the memories of you make the sad times more sad and the happy times more meaningless.  
But together we’re just song with no chorus:
verses that play in busy squares for deaf ears,
and our bridges connect to nothing (like our eyes when we look at each other).

You wanted a sacrifice you knew I couldn't give,
you wanted to mold me into something more like you
but you're not the solution you are only the instigator.
That flame was struck!
That's when the smoke filled my lungs and emptied this room we once shared.
This place where we sang songs together --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise.

Now you sing them to remember.

You want to know there were good times,
I'd rather not remember there were times at all (and why would I?).

But you've cried so much your memory of me I must look like a water drop seen through a cracked lens.
A few weeks from now I'll be a memory of a dream and fade away.

The pain in my chest will rest and I'll finally have my peace.

You see, every drum line echoes . . .

                                                                                     but they all come to close.

And I will not be scared,
because even the rocking chairs
creek when nobody's there
and that's where I'll be singing --

songs of thanks,
and songs of praise that I will sing every day.

I pray that we think and we learn the way I hope,
because we think we learn even when we don't.
Oh Lord, please help me to remember because I never want to forget
those crescent moons and tearless eyes as long as I live.
Just as long as I live for you,
                                                                                                    
                                                                                                     and nobody else.