There once was a time Gone by, gone by, Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.
Pricked finger and the blood of kings washed the riverbed clean again paving path for new bled love.
Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade. Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers Red wire arteries clipped and clipped and clipped and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk. More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust. Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight. Through glass. Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home. Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone. We all walk on our own Striving for independence Together.
Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields. I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share The bigness of what's out there. I still hear myself singing your song of longing. Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket. Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel. Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever. Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream. Interstitch the seams.