Flashes of yesterday’s garden,
deep green under a gray sky--
I step into the canvas, moving
slowly, regretful and watchful,
with the weight of past light.

So many colored years,
some bright, some somber,
and you, the voice that ripened
youth, the accented syllables
opening the hours between
cliffs and sky, your presnce
re-appearing in soft explosions
of living, so painful to let go.

I pray for change, impermanence,
for last year’s dust to settle to
acceptance, to turn over the pages
of the past and to forgive everything.

you call me creative
but my mind is the place
dreams go to die

they embark on a quest to impart me with
gold stained teeth that smile with some kind of weight

but they drown soaked in the ash
of too many stale apologies and
late night '*******'s screamed at the sky
so hollow they ring on their own

i'm so tired of pretending my words have meaning
but the only things bouncing in my skull are the nightmares
that survived me

so i don't go to sleep

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

          The Feast of Saint Stephen as Observed at the Truck Stop

                            On the occasion of meeting a friend
                         for breakfast on the Feast of St. Stephen

Now the overpass looked down
On the Feast of Stephen
With some garbage strewn around
Moldy and uneven
Brightly shone the neon light
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Pumping diesel fuel

(This is gonna be one of the Greats, eh!)