An imitation of verse,
Everything, in reverse.
My wrongs are rights,
Nothing seems clear-
Upon shining the lights.

He laughs at me;
Who claims to have seen all.
Tales I couldn't be,
Under his gazes, they fall.

But he is not here,
Yet resides everywhere.
Anywhere will he hide,
All my unspoken shows, he can confide.

Today, I woke up visibly older,
lines deepened like rivers in time.
Yet life stands untouched, unmeasured,
a quiet ghost without a chime.

Some mornings, I rise much younger,
soft as dawn, weightless and free.
Yet it is still this same old wonder,
an ageless dream inside of me.

Life is a puzzle, cruel and kind,
a whisper of loss, a burst of light.
It bends, it breaks, then heals in time,
a fleeting shadow, burning bright.

“To live is to carry the storm and the sun in the same hands—
to know sorrow like an old friend, yet still dance in the rain.”

It's dangerous
But gorgeous
Nature's beauty
Filled the minds
Roaring, scoring buzz
Scratching, crawling hum
Soothing whispers of gale
Shadows dance on ancient bark,
Whispering tales of the woods' dark.

Abbott J Hardison
             e
             e
             z
I think I disappoint my family,
Every time I Be abbreviating my middle name.
                       u
                       t
At least I'm working to get my name known,
So when I sign 'J.' people will wonder what it is.

Act I
Enter two navies inspecting a robbery scene, Norman staring at a table on a stage full of empty shuffled tea cups and scattered roses.

Norman: well wouldn’t you see! isn’t this the most balanced tea!

Enter Dover eyeing the table and Norman with sharp inspection.

Dover: what the shambles you mean? (picking a rose up)

Norman:oh the shambles! where’s the gleaming fire within the clear clouds!

Dover:what even caused such a commotion?

Norman: oh what’s the withered moon without the staggering sun! the founded prism underneath the leaves when they hum
the lookers- instead of the rounds could have taken onboard routes!

Dover stands unsure as Norman roams around like he’s on shore.

Dover: what’s buzzing in that wits of yours?

Norman halts all of a sudden picking up the pieces of a broken glass, roses, and stems.

Norman: fine time how it had tethered! if the tea cups hadn’t fallen under ink of roses on their surface! then who’d rip the poor roses out their wombs!

Dover listening to Norman, picks up the labeled teabag’s paper inspecting.

Awfully surprised Dover reads.

Dover: Sugarlime Tea? how’d that not succumbed from thrills of morbid totes! my heavened lord!

Norman halts amidst his tumble around the lowered velvet curtains.

Norman: oh that must’ve been treading on dreadful strings that led to delightful things— thorns in their cups but roses around their mugs just like vibrant flowers inhaled beneath wooden brutes!

swords do twist oftentimes!, just like forsworn letters carved inside hearts oh how the mighty wind had rumbled their grounds their cups! their roses! their mugs!

It must’ve been when the lime in that whiff had hit! oh do come abrupt thrills! to forsaken wills!

Dover shakes his head exasperated.

Dover: not even the hastiest of blades could highlight your lines you rot witted Norman! if anything but, sons of your lips could fill all those bare rugged stones!

End act 1

~
The boys of summer.

Johnny once sat under the bleachers, the scar on his tongue, a reminder of the time he bit it after falling from a treehouse. A sack full of yesterday's news in a red wagon, the first and last clues.

Eugene ... the other kid who dropped out of sight on Sunday morning, now the evening edition; now a black spot on the sun.

Why the two-year gap?

Departures and landfalls. But no explanations.

Mom and Dad never comfortable peering into the camera lens. Big brother breathing out vapors until something sparks and all
the old questions came back.

A detective's paradox. No bone. No fragment. No evidence. In his home garage hangs a poster of Eugene to remind him every day.

-- for Johnny Gosch and Eugene Martin
~