Friendships don’t always come with hugs
I think that’s how it goes
Little words, maybe few words
I don’t know if there is a tone there
But the space in between
Doesn’t necessarily feel empty
Friendships can come with handshakes
To strongly hold by
And identifying with each other
Friendships are to be
I hope we grow, I hope we change
Into the next phase of life we go,
Whatever that may be
I delight in your success,
And wish you always the best.
Stay in touch, my friend.
a choir of them
Moving always out of reaching distance
As I try to remember where my feet are
And swaying upon the fluttery wind…
From the soul of my feet mumbling out
The angels now have faces
Verge of somber or cheer
I cannot tell
To partly hide
The mumbling now all a blunder
My feet trampling,
Their hands writhing…
The choir fades in and out
My eyes and heart following
The things these angels keep,
Should I seek (it?)
Angels now invite me to embrace…
All feinting me a quick smile
Here I go[.]
Under a dark, clear sky
The muffled urban workings settle in
With skidding on light bramble
I am swept through yawning streets
By slight fingers of wind
The trees gift us a delicate melody
The cars hum a hasty ditty, and go waltzing by
The lights ebb and flow in an endless ballet, bowing goodbye
The night stands resolute, offering its air of tranquility
There lies a tinge of grey
to its expectations
Slightly gray as well, but with a hopeful breath of yellow
to the start of the shift
In hopes for a deeply satisfying purple
as you end your shift
Green is the fruition of your tasks and projects
Yellow, the joy in working with others
Blue, the open opportunities
All that is left outside of those lines are for you to paint!
Long living in royalty
The mix of laughter and tears
The epitaph of rain and clear skies, sometimes
A remark of freedom
and a toast to that which we appreciate.
A cry of all that is bittersweet,
how will the stories end?
I don’t have any cause for it, but here I am
confused by my impatience;
wanting to be respectful and understanding;
though all aware and active in the now.
I don’t believe there to be a Hyde,
though I’d rather him be known that to hide.
I don’t want to be a Jekyll,
rather a youth of care and respect.
There is no need for a foul side become.
That which in itself speaks of bleak,
Or if it ever decided to, mystery.
Can be either a curious thing or a foreboding thing.
An air of depression and a cloud of unsought toil and trouble.
The foreword and epilogue of rain.
The flavor of fog.
The curiosity of nights dipped in snow,
and the light forgone on snow.
The shelter of or a nature of all forgotten.
The feeling of indecision.
The color that has no proper ending to its tale.