The writer faced his empty page. Time had marked him as the voice, his choice. To walk in the wild side of screaming voices that lived and lied in his mind. Eyes reach for the human and found only a man, feet of clay sinking in sand. Nodding off in a rocker. Heart reaching for courage taking what he can.
Papers line an office about to close, framed recognition. Value nothing; just words spent the dollars long ago. Haunting documents of what was and what could have been, if only He had adjusted values and pride a bit.
Soulful sounds bounce and resound. Pieces of life, stages they say, markers in a book written but left unpublished. Too much shame to share with the real world, to many dead and alive to hurt. All still in quiet prayer. Silence and yet the eulogy stands written. Just waiting for the death sound.
Page has yellowed a smite, education has bent the pride, and faith formed the soul, heartache taken a place. Vision fading fingers stiff, right hand slower than left, words mixed, mind faster than ability to coordinate eye to hand.
Mind remembers too many forms and sounds, words written and left upon the pyre
Send smoke rings upward for evaluation. Clever yet planned for failure as God has a hearty laugh. Tribute to and from the eyes of man.
Tree planted, sons grown, book lays cold upon a mantle, no rush to release, few would understand and those that would, just smile at the fact of birth and knowing him.
Treasure well these words: learn to be, then if time allows live, and die like the person you picked to be.
Love tinka