It

It is a horizon of dreams aloft in hope. It is love, stirred with hate that drips need to bleed us, heal us and force our tired cope. It is a circle never ending, a line never bending, and it holds questions with no answers, like keys to kingdoms none can find to turn or master. It is that door, the door, where dear ones come and go, ones who carry joy, hold us, love us, then, in time they lack reasons to feel or the want to know us, so, no, I mean, yes, it is not long-term, strongly rooted trust. It is a strange, bewildering, momentous fuss that boils in us until we bubble up our filthiest cuss. It is same attempts in a familiar game of strange ranging from old to presentations tweaked as new that leave us standing without scent of a clue. It is the reason creating all things we do and the matter with our universal supply of glue. It is your craziness fondling my insanity, too. As a match, it does flame fan mankind’s fire to rise in heat stroked red curls ever higher. It is the silence that secrets our desires and the stillness of hush-laced conspires. It causes human hands failed attempts to grab sky-warm, star blankets, not to be human had. It is a riddled fear maze forcing us to run, to race by men with aimed happy guns, to quick stride far from addicts selling sons and slowly consider embracing those we have shun as we forgive ourselves for all never seen done. It is another day, and, say, here it does come. ... CayCay December 3, 2017