A fine line.
It's never fine.
The moon hangs above
as the cool breeze drafts
too long has it been
since the muse last appeared.
Gospel music wafting from the speakers
conducive reflection and retrospect.
What if. What if.
The mind turns and tosses
as it ponders the heart.
In a hidden garden,
he stands and moves.
Step by step,
forceful actions,
eyes closed in contemplation.
The wind ruffles his hair
the drop of sweat dangles
and gracefully departs his brow.
A flash of silver
Metallic glint
Thrust and then
Defend.
A constant,
something all who roam the earth understand:
time.
The grass is always greener on the other side.
So should one move on
or paint the town red.
What happens when you do what you love for
a living.
Where would exist the fine balance?
Fine is never fine.
A broad fine line.
like the cooling rays of the sun.
Sometimes I look at the birds and ponder
how good their life is.
No need to worry about money, or food, or jobs, or love.
Just breathe and soar.
Then I realize they have to deal with
traffic lights, and airplanes, and
pollution, and poisoned food.
No more drinking heartily from puddles on the ground.
It could be oil from a motor vehicle.
Or acid rain.
Or vomit.
One man's trash is another man's treasure.
Onward and upward he climbs,
looking for a place to rest, and dwell
upon the meaning of life
and the poverty of the world.
But the stones beckon not,
it is not the time
nor the place.
Carry on, they shriek.
Faster, faster, they scream.
Till fire burns them silent.
