Writing from a little heart, how does it seem so grand? In this dark and narrow hallway, I struggle to understand. Preaching to the choir nightly, because it feels so right. Teaching relativity and why stars so often bright. The lame one follows three steps behind.

The camera’s interrupted at Hollywood and Vine. Used to take the crimson path and smell the oaks and pine. Waterways and willow trees deeply sunk in sand. Put in a scroll tightly wrapped with the other things we’d planned. All the uses in reduction and oils so refined.

Edge of town with a sound, dry mud upon our boots. So inclined to read her mind, going backwards to my roots. Helpless and so feeble, redefined by life. The pitch so black and pungent making it hard to follow fife. Our bucklers were the chains of heroic dream.

Indelible, uneatable, leaping for the chalice filled with time’s sand. Barely caught a sharpened edge nearly losing part of my hand. So impressed by larger words, I spoke them when I slept. Ideas to hard to master into my mind they crept. Leaping in imaginary joy.

We taught ourselves the lessons we were told would make us big. With broken toes and knuckles we forgot to pay the vig. At least our reason splendid at last our tickle mused. We try to bribe the master but our efforts were confused. Slept on the doorstep in shame.

Our thoughts and devices so soon detected and deterred. The speckled bird once twice was heard in darkness quite absurd. We camped on yonder mountain, with smiles and troubled fountain. Only to find we’d lost then found our mind. Clapping hands and giving high fives.