I write sometimes in the middle of the night, often with little light to keep perspective within sight. The fight is real and meant to hurt each loss we feel as we lose our shirt. When victory is certain the things that are hurtin stop flirtin with the skirt and shroud of disaster and despair. It was never fair as we lose more hair we begin to see from here to there. Each step a choice in silent voice as we rejoice to have the chance to make them. Stepping light into the darkest part of night, intent to take just one last bite at getting it right.

Swing for the fence if you’ve got any sense the catcher’s dense and the pitcher is dreaming of non stop exposure. In closure we will make for the mountains of sorrow on the morrow to borrow a little pinch of madness from Sister Bizarro and a cup full of despair from those yet come aware with fire in their hair and leaves on their blouse, stuck in the house with a gripe and grouse. My toes are aligned. Stated proper while hanging upside down beneath a chopper there’s nothing that gold has on copper except for the whopper and cars it can proffer. The dance of a man without myth who has yet to find the will to romance, perchance askance with a flame at the leg of his pants.

Clutch tight to hearts and fights long forgotten will add to horizon’s unending. These are the dreams we’ve been given to reside on the other side of hope’s aspiration. Washing in the rekindled fire of Spirit’s cleansing, fulfilling the promise to all. Seen listing in port the long and the short of a call to the landing unannounced and ill received. Sail set to the land of regret but forgiveness intercepts us. This is neither romance nor intellectual deconstruction of the mysteries of my existence, but a proud picture painted by Almighty reflection His desire for my passing through time. One way ride with Wisdom as my guide I got to reason or call to hide as we were meant for bride.