Turning 40
Without question or words, I am alone tonight with you, writing.
A menial task, at least.
If mine eyes were like the Sparrows', they would march out off and grab you. Today, I fuel these mean, tyrannical things.
If mine eyes have but bought the answer, the answer to Mine own pure heart, I would have sought out refuge in places zero, finding it; zero repeating it.
There are no words for which I can say that echo my thoughts as I read and write about my feelings on this cold, October morning. No words mentioned?
A hollow glass of timer shoots low upon my belly, it is made out of coal, and it believes it knows me.
It is brass and silver; It is my old, long-lost violin, the 'Scarecrow'.
Perhaps there's more to life here than meets the everlasting paths of divine entities. Yiuth being one of them, faith being one of the few.
I cannot reason with my thoughts if I am alone with those other inquiries, only fathom them. May they never sleep at night. May they never fathom...
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