To keep this feeling.
To stop this feeling.
To feel something.
Because it's what you do
It's who you are.
Without it, there's no spark.
Nothing to do.
This is what we do.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
But not today.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
One time, a hot wind, high mountainside.
That day, canyons and boulder shade.
You stood easy above.
King panted, pranced.
One time, crude day distilled to sustaining air.
On a minor street in a lesser city,
In a hard-won room
She sets her lips and winds her hair.
She waits for them to beat down the door.
And drag her away.
Sideways years of crumpled days;
Brittle leaves over ragged lawn.
Beware that man's intentions.