When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone
his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold
to feel not
to hear not
draws likeness to hell on earth
the leaves so brown and rusty
pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow
so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest
In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom
so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he
Too much time he has been stuck in one place
he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race
to places others hate and where on one wants to be
so on his feet he flees
to the lands devoid of life
and the occasional bubbling cree
The shoes too tight the hurt his feet
they leave an aching, tingling feeling
They yearn to begat themselves of his heel
Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again
yet he still wears them
He knows they cause blisters
he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows
His wandering feet cannot remember the grass
the heat of asphalt
the agony of sharp glass
What is he to do?
his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe
to walk without?
absurd he laments
He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense
when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world
Another 10 years
another 10 he hopes
When his tromping up floors will finally pay off
Will that day ever come?
a bigger car?
a bigger house?
a bigger safe for all his guns?
blindly through life he blunders
hoping for when things will get better
he was raised not to wonder
raised not to dream
into suited glass himself he must ream
Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry
on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky
Too late to fix now
he wished he had realized younger
even fifteen years would have worked
Now he sits
old and broken
feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds
wishing someone would have spoken
Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe
His eyes fiery
heart masked with rage
he screams ever upward
bent with age
Mourning the loss of his life
Horse heads tucked away
beneath your sheets
pigs root in the grass and the goats gently bleat.
All is quiet on the farm tucked in the valley
and in the small shack you built on the edge of the property,
with its round door you painstakingly framed,
it it beautiful
Barefoot in overalls your day is encompassed with sweet earth
and ever ripening carrots
it remains is beautiful
Armed with an 8 track recorder, a guitar, banjo and mandolin
you slowly construct the simple yet elegant notes
that speak volumes and leave those who listen
wondering where this noise came from.
You explain to them the unawares of the answer
you try to explain the movement
the science behind the notes
they do not understand.
Precious few do
But thats okay
For the few that do it resonates to their core
makes them wonder
the hours spent and lost.
the ever lengthening prose that is engrained within the
Like that of a fine wood
much goes into the tight construction
and to make something truly astounding
it takes special care
So you work for a year or two in attempt to skull your way through the still waters
of the soul
to find the long forgotten island where the compositive chest full of you buried creativity lays
One may hope that this place truly exists
that somewhere deep inside there is the key to opening the box of your dreams
To understand there way there one must not look within
The bounty the world prescribes will overflow the chest you find
an introverted mess
a blotched paper with ink
Showering in creeks, eating stolen carrots and potatoes we were poor, but we were happy. Fools, destitute, introverted, lonely. Words were used to describe us but we cared not for the likes of a greater world, we valued the small things, took enjoyment of a long forgotten life known only in books and songs.
We would surely break ourselves, they said, come wandering home with ribs poking
through skin, sunken eyes, callouses and blisters.
Nothing to show for it.
Remember the lives we chose for ourselves; the magic we found lost in the woods, in alleys, hiding beneath the cushions of torn couches.
The inkling of love for each other and love for ourselves,
Springing forth to scorch our throats with every drag
Smooth our skin with every hand covered with earth
With every lungful of air
we were the ones who got away
— The End —