Spinning down the road, black asphalt
Bubbling in the sun, black tar
Filling up my lungs, North Star
Shining in the night, black sky
Telling of the void, make right
What you know is wrong, no fright
Demons come and go, clean strike
Severs to the bone, white knight
Standing next to God... But not quite though,

Working on and on, clocks ticking
Money on the run, paper burning
Time for me to go, no stopping
Grind my life with stone, mind sharpening
Ill take what's mine when owed.

Sleep when I am old, still counting
The years fly by in droves, doves flocking
Can't keep the dust or gold, worth nothing
Nor blood nor flesh nor bone...
But the spirit keeps walking...
On and on and on and on and on....

Why is it strange?

Well it's the feeling of happy hopelessness
It's acceptance of the end of all ends
And the beginning of goodbye

They told you not to wear it
Your mascara runs like free children
In abundance
It tells them all how much you dread the leaving

Walking away
Is easier when you're convinced
You're walking towards something better

But darling how could you not see
That you just walked away
From the best.

For my muse, I choose the euphoric source
Of my most transcendent -

   Lovely
- Muddy
Memories.

Perceptual flashes ― slosh slushing
Approaching an untamed blue-green pond
Just your average amphibian gone blonde.
In sunshine or windward shower.

Loitering around the grassy brim,
On that one slick rock, I stood up
Catch a fish ― oooooh you swift ⁓
Let it back in?

Or you could...
Run screaming like the flaming river rumbling down the mountain.
To the lunulate lagoon?? in the front yard

Hop & stand
Fish in hand You. Have. To. Make. It.  

But     the        gargantuan          estate.  .     . it's too late.

That tiny t-rex gait ― might just seal
That golden guppies fait.

Cause you sprung like spring
And set that little sucker free.

cracked an elbow making a tackle,
ruptured a kidney throwing a body block;
my less than illustrious football
career curtailed

so I chose to run:
an active verb--organs, bones,
are nouns, things to be damaged,
broken, frozen in almighty time

which slowed my sprint to a
jog, then my jog to a hurried hike
on my arid prairies and around
my wooded lane

where the young neighbors eye
me zipping by, deep in thought--who
is that old man pondering parts of speech?
don't let the children listen to him

for I know they have their own bones
yet to break, their own journey to make,
from fanciful fields of fame, to cruel knowledge
nothing remains the same--nouns decay

I'll keep walking wild as long as I can;
I recall making the last tackle, that final
fated block--those nouns now long gone, and no
adjectives can bring them back