My thoughts swallow itself into a dark blue hole.
The man goes in it.
The boy wants to come out of it.
He sees a flashing light.
The boy struggles to come out.
The man sits to gaze at the evading light.
The man has seen it once before. The clear blue skies that invite the afternoon stroll of a mother with her 3 year old and dog walking side by side.
He remembers the persimmons that dried like candy on the strings that hang outside in the story of a Winter’s season.
He gleans into the wisdom of his old man who told him to look before he crossed paths with his other self.
He scratches his head from the anguishing thought of ravaging fleas that once tampered with his patience.
But now he’s alone. He only sees the canvas of a closing dimension. There is no reflection of his younger self.
He dreams though. He caves into the beauty of his former self. The one that yelled for his Mom to cook him food and the one that sought his dad to ease his pain.
It’s him and this hole together with violin chords easing the physical drought of nothingness.
There is a sound to life.
He just doesn’t have anyone to share it with.
Upon the whispers of the boy, he slumbers out of his own moment.
He corrects his posture and squints his eye at the at the remaining moments of the tunnel’s sunset.
It’s one color and one fixture. It holds one temperment of its own accord.
Nature doesn’t listen to the wimpers of a dying soul.
But it grabs onto the youth of apology and peaceful toil.
I can become this moment with lines of gold changing the structure of the note that hangs in balance.
I cannot read in the dark. I cannot write without seeing where my hand wrote.
It won’t mean anything anymore, any longer.
But look at me once more.
Soul, don’t disappear into a fragrance.
Know that you believe past this day and this hurt.
It’s not you to become something out of pain.
You’re right there.
You’re that child I see in you.
I’m waiting for you.