I smiled the uncertainty only a foreigner could muster.
Farewell.

There are monsters
whispered about by sailors
in tavern fairy tales, through
nervous anecdotes

Speaking about something
will give it life
it will come to you
from the darkest corner
of the Mirror.

You are just another
swallowed sailor
from a ship with loose lips
and burnt candle mirrors

Our story is whispered
by sailors in tavern
fairy tales about the times
when the best that it is
isn’t enough to save yourself

from the darkest corner
of the mirro

BG-4/8/17

You ever walk from place to place with your earbuds in and music turned up? I do that a lot. I’m a hallway walker myself, used to run everywhere at first but not anymore.

So since you’re a hallway walker, where are you going? You got somewhere to be? I find myself walking halls a lot. Sometimes it’s for absolutely no reason. And sometimes we all just need to walk out our problems or feelings.

You get used to seeing the same walls and doors along the way. Sometime that halls are empty and hollow, and sometimes you’re trying to walk through a crowd...

Have you ever wondered about where other people are going? Maybe they’re walking the same way you are, or maybe they’re walking to nowhere. Either way, we’ve all got somewhere we have to go. I hope you make it there safely.

And hey, don’t forget where you’re going, but don’t forget where you came from either. The journey is just as important as the destination. Thanks for finding my letter. Now keep walking, I mean, don’t you have somewhere to be?

~Letter Writer

it is quiet now.

when you reach out for me,
you grab my attention.
you let me know it is real.
those moments of clear.
purely cleared. where the fingertips
come in the form of pictures my brain
cannot ignore.
these pictures are attached to feelings of One,
and I hold onto these moments.

I think of them, under the vast blue sky.
how the mountains moved with me.
how the freedom felt in front of me,
beside me, behind me. I was free to roam.
free to chose which way, again.
those moments, these were the ones
I would reload.
it is quiet out there.

once, in the middle of no where,
there was a storm.
the lightening struck down all around,
my fists clenched the wheel.
the desire to go home was pulsing
through my knuckles.
I only moved forward.

once, in the middle of the winter,
there was a storm,
the snow blowed and the road
was inches thick in ice.
my fists clenched the wheel,
I felt free to live.
I knew life would meet me on the other side.
I drove slow, and allowed the embrace.

this gypsy soul knows no home.
its the road, the path of my feet.
the beat is kept by the breeze and the free.
to explore this space might be home.
the searching for the next new moment.
learning its tone, then on to the next.
leaving bits behind.

its so quiet, the silence might be home.
I would moan into the quiet,
piercing its peace.
low, slow rolls of me.
these are the points where creation speaks.
in these quiet, lonely places.
the voice comes out on the wind.
my heart breaks free, quietly.

and again,
the blue above guides me,
I listen and fall in love over and over and over...