A mother calls out to her little one Listen to what I say child of my own Up lift your hands for the blessings cry out The precious gift of life lies here with you child of my own The stars and galaxies and all that are with in measure not to this ecstasy My heart shall always beat with this endless love You are a song in the night child of my own And now this joy will forever be witnessed till the skies fade away
it was your sweet lips sugary words drip your eyes, your gaze, make me twitch a knot in my stomach when you flirt when you touch my sensitives all the small gestures and your act of service suddenly I'm your Queen Bee I'm in a sugar rush addicted, obsessed, hooked on
There is a quality to desolation that I have never seen.
I have been in a desert, touched the aridity of it’s soil, and its air like hot feathers on my breath; I have seen the sea far out with only a blue smudge on the horizon to mark our return. But I have never felt that terror, that awe and loneliness that has been spoken of, and said by the poets and deliverers, to bring ones face to God.
Do not misunderstand me. I have felt these things; at the end of a trail leading nowhere, on a ***** with loose stones for footholds. I have been in places of terror and beauty and been overthrown. But not wholly.
Perhaps I have not been still enough, have not lingered in those part-wild places that have seen the summit of my fear, my longing. Perhaps even they, even they, have what I seek.
I have friends in High Places, good friends tripping ***** floating atop mushroom clouds of ecstasy Naked, in otherworldly dimensions pioneering the mental landscape, explorers of the mind and soul bodies, breaking free of the Iron Cage living to Love working only to get by getting high to escape to a place where mere existence makes sense.
In honor of Bicycle Day. And inspired by the poetic ramblings of Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac.