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
Aroused by the typewriter’s bell I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog Imagining caffeinated mornings Walking the Sunset within the fog
Though those were forgotten emotions I’m not able to repeat that form So I do my best to feel the original Sometimes I’m hard to notice before the storm
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