Rhyming Schemes Lost in Dreams
Laura returned like Halley’s Comet, a burst of light from a faded star.
How does it feel to be living on the downside of great fame and fortune? We’ve done it all, been squeezed through the eye of a needle only to emerge and begin another thread, lacing things back together again, to sew up the ripped and torn shreds of lives gone suddenly wrong.
Without warning your life turned left while you were prepped for a turn to the right towards that never ending bright and shining path. Try to correct, out of control, you spin from the sky to the earth below. Thinking in rhyming schemes, you struggle to achieve your lost dreams, soaring high in the sky above what you once believed was love until you were broken, puzzle pieces scattered, words unspoken all tumbled to the ground.
Quitters are losers, game over they say. “I quit” is not even in my vocabulary. I’m willing to play with a 50-card deck, the hangman’s noose around my neck.
It’s the dealer I want to get to know, the one behind the mask, unclothed. Who is he who lives deep within this tattered, wrinkled, bag of skin? Take another ride on the wings of emotion, so many flavors of salt from the ocean. The tears of souls lost in devotion, to belief sets that shattered, or ones that withstood the relentless test of time. I serve the will. It pays me well. I want to live to be a hundred, and if I don’t make it, I want all of you to gather around and try to bring me back to life. I stole that line. I wanted to record it before it flittered away, another butterfly lost to the wind. Thoughts about the most recent case of a God that rules over time and space, he who sets the laws of motion and attraction, the magnetic polarity of a ball of earthen action, that spins its cycles like a fine Swiss watch. Celestial, dependable, Hadit, the God of Change. Time and motion, a heady potion, of clouds, and wind, and sun. We entertain you on this stage, a set filled with decaying objects played, in ever-changing patterns only you can discern. A man on an island scans the horizon, looking for signs of life. Whenever he spots one he gets attracted to anything shiny and bright. Like a moth he circles the candle’s flame, ever closer to pursue the light, a pilgrim on a fatal flight. All too soon we all will die, so why not fly? Act to capture and savor each minute, defy the clock, don’t live within it.