Another man's shoes never quite fit
the way you'd expect them to
but hey
go figure,
it's the walk that shapes the feet
and everyone's gone places
they would never visit
again

we think we're all on the same page
but
we're writing different books

we think we're literate but
we can only read our own story
and somehow,
every message we send is
unintentionally
encrypted
in ways the greatest minds couldn't decipher
yet we all look up and see
the same sky
the same moon
the same stars
and we all call this land
Own

There was a girl
quite beautiful
who drowned herself
drinking they say
without blinking
like an infant suffocating
while sleeping without care
out where a lifebuoy
floats like a soggy rose
marking the spot
they last heard her
singing while sinking.

If the police were issued water pistols the death rate by drowning in this country would increase by ninety percent in two short weeks

If you were granted the gift of temporary flight...

     Would you ascend...
          Just so you could feast your eyes
          on the horizon,
          beyond the confines of weather-worn tiles
          set upon unsuspecting rooftops.

     Would you take soar...
          Just so you could briefly leave the ground
          below.
          And as the land beneath you diminishes,
          all that's you tethered to your earth
          almost instantly would turn into nothing
          but specks of insignificance.

     Would you fly free...
          Just so your heart could entertain the possibility
          of being ensnared by the breathtaking
          view of the sun,
          as it rests its pompous girth upon its bed of
          clouds;
          Like a bratty king sprawled over lavish sheets.

     Would you burst through the boundary...
          That separates heaven and earth.
          Just so you could be bewitched by the full blown
          moon,
          be enthralled by the siren calls of the stars,
          and be a part of the spectacle that is the
          universe...

If you were granted the gift of momentary flight...

     Would you still ascend?
          Knowing full well that soon gravity would claim
          you with less than no pity nor remorse.
          And all that you had complacently forsaken...
          Will greet you with the harshest of punishments.



                    *I would.

My skin  is now ready for your eyes
Not for a stranger in the night
I know you are waiting for a rhyme
Like a rainbow that's out of sight

I painted birds and  chickens on canvass
I know you'll remember this day
Spend time calculating the hues
To create a piece all the way

You may fall short of  time and chance
Sometimes you may pause and then hurry
But that's how we  create like we explode
Be obedient if you don't want to feel sorry.

-----

She's an artist. She paints.  She write songs,  poems and stories.  Even a stranger  could prove that. Her skin tattoos speak so well.  You can see flowers and animals on her arms,  neck and shoulder.  So funny that even chickens can be seen once you closely look at those marks.  

As a poet,  she mostly observe rhyme and meter.  She would always spend time calculating the syllables in a line.  She always remember her mentor's teachings even when writing short pieces. There was no moment that she's not obedient of the rules she had learned from him. She won't forget that anything should not be done in a hurry.  

She is an artist,  and her  creativity is like an emotion that is going to explode once properly set.

i.

In her silhouettes lee, I'm unscathed, unslaved,
Sheltered, free; tis she's mine sea, who guideth
me. Lief i'll cradle her, protectively, lief i'll be
the breath she breathes, lief O' lief; serenity.

ii.

In her presence I shalt bathe in her scintillating
albedineity, plenty O' plenty, shalt be in ourn
Cup; risen enduring creation's, just ourn love
Is enough, verily, verily, accumulating puff's.

iii.

Puff's of the holiness, surrounding ourn locus,
famigerating through the valley's; wherein we
Giveth epistle's for men's focus, that charity,
Forgiveness, and untainted Agápe, mayest be
a missive; for all humankind to copy.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome Poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication