March 16, 2012
Time's fierce winds and shadowy storms
Have blown the black and white out of his rigid mind,
Now he's left donning the gray streaks of wisdom
That only come from the spinning of the years.
He sits like a statue enthroned in the sun.
As the strolling silhouettes randomly pass before him,
Heal toe heal toe they stride to the pigeons chatter.
Some spin to what they believe they think he said.
We celebrate his sadness and call it depth.
We cherish his lines of reasons and reckonings,
As if we didn't have enough questions of our own.
We let him in his longing try and tell us who we are.
His words are like the ringings of a distant bell
To those with hope alive enough to listen,
But he doesn't know the power of his shadowy storms
He just paints dreams and pain until they rhyme,
And when the poets dreams are too frail to stand
And the fiercest of the winds have found him,
The young ones will carry their own empty stares
And fly them as if they are banners of truth.
Maybe his stare was not so empty.
Was he living or leaving to the ringings of a distant bell?
I wonder as strolling silhouettes pass before me.
Heal toe heal toe, so goes the dance.