Oh, Where Does Our Journey End

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

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

Dowager Queen Dressed Like A Nun

Dowager Queen dressed like a nun

Looking for courtesies in murky nights

Whispering to me “this is gonna be fun”

Shadows dance in tranquil candlelight

I’m all in as she shucks her brassiere

Mixing metaphors with her gin

Titillated whenever she comes near

Pulling lace away from her original sin

Broken Umbrellas & Sturdy Desks

Broken umbrellas & sturdy desks
Making no distinctions for the loss of time
Sketching out all the possible plots
Willful heartache remains the worst kind of crime
Put away your stencils & fountain pens
These days call for someone to be original & bold
Toss aside oaken casks of yesteryear’s notion
This world isn’t ready for those who shattered their own mold
Tea cups & china dolls should stay by the wayside
They won’t last long out here if they can’t put up a fight
Early days already simmering, making my coffee feel cold
Survivors must gather; let love be the fruit by which we write