It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
Single circles walk until still, safe and being. Safe in the being was good until the circle walked out of itself. Confirmation smiles so nicely. Circles roll. We sit, nicely, we nod, hello, the temples thump again.
As strong wind pushes leaves into song- pebbles pop and grind.
In the middle of summer the foliage is think and the sun finds difficulty making it to the ground. You drive through streaking moments of blinding light and back into the shadows- repeatedly, like a drumbeat.
It’s easy to be lulled into salvation if the road it long enough and the mountain deep enough- each bend brings another world, each world a new beginning.
-at least a new thought, if a new world isn’t easily accepted. But then again, that’s an individual mindset- one meant for unending growth, another for a self-inflicted stockade.
I saw God sitting next to a tree. The rock waved. Asked about how things have been. When being seen and having a wave wasn’t so difficult to accomplish. One smile at a time, during Covid-war, a mask wasn’t enough to stop the kids at school from wanting to run. And run. and run they did until one of them opened the door, freely with no mask awaiting his tongue, “This is Fucking awesome.”