The 'ists keep talking to me
Reciting from memory
Something that came to them
When they needed it

They tell me I need them too
Their 'isms
Because if I don't have an 'ism
Then I must be miserable

I nod my head
Single syllables are enough
To give them the feeling
That they've helped me somehow

Despite their insightful 'isms
They're easily agitated
By something as common as
Another 'ist

You've been dying for some time now
Stooping a little more each day
You are
A reminder for the old
An adventure for the young
An eyesore for those who are neither
And now that you've endured
Years of negligence,
Centuries of singularity
You're scheduled to be reduced
To rubble
To be buried
Under an usurper who is
Clueless to what lies ahead

A pretty stranger
Walked into my life
And took photos
Of things I see
Every day

If you should see them
Would you let me know
What things I see
Every day
Really look like?

Birds are singing lullabies
To these weary ears of mine
As the rest of the world wakes

Strained eyes track the silent climb
Of six little legs that stride
Curiously up the wall

It must be hard to be small
Or to clamber up my wall
Only to find the ceiling

But size hasn't changed my climb
I'm still tired, spending this time
Staring at the ceiling.

Smoky little bar
In my head, How far away
You must be from here

Tomorrow is just
One more step towards that place
Where I'll rest my hat

Until I arrive
I hope those doors are well used
And the nights go on

Ill see you all soon
Sharing old stories in that
Smoky little bar

I just need
a guiding light
that doesn't
pretend it's better than
I am,
I'm not far, but I've passed
that point.

That pointless
pointing and swearing
that others are missing the
answer
you've found on
signposts a few feet
beside the highway.

Thing is: if you're
where you need to be
you wouldn't still be
driving.

There are places on earth
That carry the song,
The story of the common
Curious adventurers
Who've come
Who've gone.

There are miles of land
Upturned, destroyed
Tamed and revived
To house the inhabitants
Of a younger kind,
Timid eyed, though
Bolder in time.

There are streets filled
With a daily tide
Of do-wells, lookers,
And passers by
Who beat hides strung
Taught across habits
Long refined.

There are minds
Constantly eyeing
The time,
Buying ideas,
Borrowing lines
From the lyrics
Of the song
So peerless and fine
That drifts from the evenings,
Days, years of convening
Spirits
To the ears of you and I.

You hear it too,
Of course you do,
You're a note
Or a chord,
Or a melody true,
Crisp, settling into
This movement
To tell the next
Troupe
A little bit
Of me
Of you.