I could tell a tale, but its really not a tale at all.
It would be a series of endless walks in the forest and the park.
It would be the places between the world where we could find a place to lay,
where we watch the sky,
bow ties of light; ribbons of years long forgot,
when the grass was soft and the fall was colorful secrets,
when children were smarter then man and people were friendly strangers who splash in puddles, the yellow et red fall leaves curtain our forest in,
I see from the train tracks happening of the end,
barefoot in running to a horizon my spirit chase,
It would be its own bow tie ribbon of light falling where you left to climb the other side alone.
I have tried many times to write close to what ought be written,
but I am yet to succeed, the anathematization of happiness is what iced over when we left. Desolate clouds covering the stars,
and steps toward somewhere un-important,
when you were there and I didn’t tell,
why bother you with me.
