I know the years seem rolling faster,
Our lives in constant change,
But through the days, the nights, together
We remain, still us.

Other changes could take place,
No one knows the course of direction
But of those things we can choose
Some need more time than others.

We have kept our lives as open books,
Reading one another,
This baring of our thoughts and dreams,
Are what keeps us; still us.

A little more time, to think and reason,
Together we remain,
Living and learning, teaching and healing,
Still us, together, are we.

Tear down the rotted timbers riddled through
With smoke of ancient fires,
Winding through the grain as
Natures grave robbers,
In, out, leaving trails
Boring holes smooth and sharp.

Pull down walls, drafting with
Yesterdays winds, growing smaller
Each day as tiny fragments
Stretch free of tight structure
Losing to fall
Drying to blow away in a strong breeze.

Purge the fearful roof of its
Rafters, clean the mold and dust
From its underside, grown so fierce
And tight till adherence appears
To have been in the original plan
Set as the concrete in the foundation.

***** the mighty teak and oak, taller
Than before, cross with bracing if
Steel and metals new, resolve
To glass the holes as windows,
Build upon the strong foundation
Stand to the winds, roof shelter from the rain.

Standing as a posthumous syllogism on the main platform of the terminal, is the statue,
Of what is perceived to be man.  Nondescript in attitude and feature, balanced
By the raw fact that a craftsman was disposed to cast it in bronze.

The likeness of the general populace, defined through blank eyes, in the perfect reflection
Of the truth.  It seems that the epitome of accepted natural progression, that there
Should be no inscription, no engraved statement of popularity or definition on its base.

The dank smell and dust on the edifice on which it resides, continues to be a grim reminder
of the expected and the commonplace.  The reminder of what was and is, is left unnoticed,
Forgotten by the familiar repetitive sight.

The dying terminal (a redundant epithet) has grown dark through the cast of despair
And false hope showering its massive windows from above.  Light source has been cut off,
Leaving only a path of beaten resolve, to direct the feet of the misguided.

Not unlike the path, closest to the fence, struck hard by the hooves of the cattle, prompted forward
by the hand out of food in the first cold days of winter.  The stream grows on a daily basis, more and more
The masses trip and stumble aboard the trains, to find their lurching, rocking way to self destruction.

Nobility could have been found in even handed choice.  Those who chose the line, the prolonged rail of
Indifference and non-comprehension. Rails of iron, rusted like the rotted cheap pines on the waters edge.
It is the longest journey, containing the most miles, the last station, the end of earth and existence.

In some way you have known the base emotion, and what has been the guise of continuity, it is a new
Reality, a new abstraction, there are no contradictions. The checked premise and the realization
In words and concepts, those things we have known all along.

The realization is loved and hated at the same time, and it can only be  beneficial that the welcome
Exceeds the hatred.  The desperate homage to the masses is fading from the tangibleness, and is
Replaced the the disquieting base physical feeling of the impending no mater being undesired.

More important is the knowledge, that the precepts and premises held
Without words have the tangible meaning long desired,
And that the intangible reward, that can only be shared with few.

It is not within my soul,
To find a vengeful wrath,
To seek a painful end
From a painful beginning.

There is no reward in revenge,
No reward in hurt or hate,
No pleasure in misery,
No love in judgement.

The things of your life have happened,
As have the things in mine,
All creating a deeper devotion
Building a deeper love.

Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
                                   Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
                                   Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.

Candors past was hidden still, behind
Cragginess of face and solid jaw,
Weathers brace had darkened his soul
And his complexion mirrored the move,
The iron mask went unnoticed by all he knew.

The vise and chains across his head and feet
Likewise were invisible, the grimaced smile
Deceived and fooled; Only he whose past it was
Knew what truths were hidden there,
And what  salvation held in store.

He could not **** the memories,
Though dampening dimming, holding back
Putting them in their place
Would be a victory to savor
As any would in Candors shoes

What more must be paid?  What is
Salvation price?  To gain the
Soul is loss of life; loss of past
Accepting direction and lead
Clinging to the sheer walls of changed destiny.

Carry not the magic spring in less
Than jars of gold; or
Vases of pure fired silver.
Never taint or let it be tepid
Only cool and clean and ready to drink.

Satisfactions degree is only determined
By the users feel, not wish or want
Nor what should have been
But only in the reception digesting,
Waiting circulation throughout.

There is no mystery in the magic spring
It cannot corrupt, only introduce,
It cannot lie, only offer alternative
Never wasteful, sometimes lacking flavor,
But always running, bubbling and full.

The price of drink is forever change,
No return to placid ignorance;
Desires thirst  for more
Constantly prevailing, interminable quest,
For satisfactions degree is determined simply, by feel.