Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
When once I approach a bridge I mount my fear by extending my hand, as I did with my father years ago. We approached a grated expanse and I implored he catch me should I fall. Safely then on the other side, he having held me the entire way, I knew I was forever indebted. I still don't like bridges and I don't like admitting that something scares me, but I hate that debt most of all.
To raise eyes, maiming ageless weight and expectation. It is the inevitable rebellion of appreciation. It is worth it... To curse the eye and to press the light. And when the wanton nothing bristles as boldness refuses the lash... Oppression?... He remains the liar we despise.
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.