Blowing the dust off our individuality Making sure our hands have the proper grip Clutching the pen to jot a delicate ode Black coffee; bold inscriptions with each sip
Once awake, I turn to the written word Exacting the notes conjured; never by rote Lost with the margins of a fool’s errand I’m quiet, but compassion might just be the antidote
To lick history off the back page Ingesting dust spores & all that came before Communing with the dead souls Whose words are always coming back for more
Delirium induced by broken memories Shudders left lacking in female attention Visions remain long after waking Thus resulting in fragile retention
Those ministrations forever known Dusting off the scarred, forbidden plot When did the journey cease to please Chained to the past with defective thoughts
Oh, where does our journey end Or begin, as it so often might seem Futile attempts to erase the past The unknown details of our dreams
The open road panders to a false escape The mere opportunity to rewrite a sojourn Jesus perambulating with Uncle Walt Debating the path; perchance to learn
Shaky prospects in apportioned time Manifest destiny teases Ginsburg & Kerouac Further roads leading to ornate wisdom & we keep it concealed out in the back
Thoreau mocking society with his solitude Knowing alone is the greatest we could ever be Thoughts come to us in gentle waves That perhaps our visions should become the sea
A reinterpretation of westward expansion Route 66 cross-contaminating Highway 61 All roads have never led us home Emily tempting Death with her life left undone
The growing wisdom of our consumed space Emerson’s penning pre-revolutionary blues Introducing our souls to unrefined grace The Good Lord providing Her unfiltered muse
Feeble humanity; lost across the tracks Original sin that we’ve taken on the chin Sifting thought; we might be welcomed again But knock off the Devil’s dust before you come in
Frayed cuff on antique khaki Knowing thy state of dress I wasn’t as dapper as she was used to Hoping she wouldn’t think any less
He wasn’t any better than a prig Her dance card drawing sideways looks Quietly, she enjoyed my wicked tongue & the way we shared our crooked books
Shaking the dust off our neglected spines Certain steps lead to an awkward courtship But faith in the power of pristine passion That’s when I met her puckered cherry lips