Smoke Long Stories

Last Day (Day 187: 12/05/13)

Sun hits paper that came after rain;
Finishing insights that will come after time.
To have them now would add,
Bring forth, my self-serving ways.
I play messenger at times, childlike,
Letters that some will understand.
Will memory come to assist
Or damage thoughts, I thought intact.
I traveled, only with movement,
No planned pause, motion took over.
Now inching to a home of mine
I listen to familiar conversations.
Most like mud, a grind,
Fine, aligned and quote, normal, unquote.
In ways a “c’est la vie” would suffice
But the mountains hold rain
Like my bunk bed held me.
Capturing imagination, not wisdom, just rocks.
A welcome return to rocks.

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This entry was published on 12/05/2013 at 12:11 and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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