Thomas R Parsons
Fly
Fly - never past devils in big windows, taking bows for a plate of flowers. They will glean your soul from you, as a reaper might - only you're living at the end.
Fly beyond wanton desires, past graves that were planted years before this moment. They hold memories, bodies of things best left forgotten. Bodies don't always have a face.
Exist in a time that knows nothing of itself. It has no perceptions of seconds, despite its blood is littered with wasted hours.
Believe you are sublime. The earth carries you to only the destinations that you own. All is yours, even the cracks in the sidewalks with reeds of grass deeply rooted in them. Cracks don't always mean broken.
Losses of life take the light out of the deep within - eviscerated by our grief. Flawless love and always praying for moments - moments that have not our name on them, that are not ours and are not our right to touch.
What lies ahead is a road. Forked in many different directions, with vultures circling if you dance down the wrong road. Vultures are ignorant. You choose the road - AND LIVE!
My heart. My being. I cry for those who can't. I cradle hope and hopelessness in the same arm, while they scratch and bite at each other. Will one lose? Yes. Time will scream it from the tabloids.
Trust no devil! Fly past these devils, they offer bows for flowers, but they're embedded with lies and instant regret. Keep your flowers.
Thomas R. Parsons