Fragile ice
under northern lights
her green eyes

For my girlfriend.

Along an unknown path
Distant from the place you call home
Voices summon you in the distance
Edging you to claim your destiny
New legends unfold and lessons learned while
Traveling to new lands
Under the strings of fate
Reach out to that light within and
Escape through your dreams to release your inner self

Brooding busy boys
dewdrop grass in muddied dirt
bent-back summer day

The scent-hungry hound
Unthinkably finds what's lost
That's meant to be found

I find comfort in reveries
written by men who barely breathe,
or by women who find power in paper
cast out because they lack political favor.

Stories by the wealthy and bored
fortunate but damned enough to find life a chore,
the pensive folk who peer and pry
prod our thoughts into newfound high.

We guess that they have measured motive
to gorge on fame until they're bloated,
or make their mark on mortal minds
in desperate ploys to outlast time.

Some riddled and ruined by reality
who write to quell not critics but poverty,
knowing that genius might swim in scribbles
that earn a few pennies little by little.

All cut from the same curious cloth
willing to lay naked every thought,
for everyone and no one to see and savor
but for at least a single soul to find some flavor.

God forget the queen and save these paupers
the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers,
the absent yet ever-present teachers
the ones who give new breath to life's creatures.

And every bloody or rosy rhyme
owes its rhythm to well-spent time,
of imperfect souls and fearless fighters
the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.

Thank you to every person who spreads literacy through thoughtful writing, poetry, or storytelling.  You're doing the world an amazing service.
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