Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.
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The other side
All that I want now
is to see what’s just beyond
the other side
of that golden mountain range,
because I’m done with alleyways
and there’s nothing left behind.
a new days morn
Golden white light
of a new days morn
pours through glass
another day reborn
In the ashes of night
there lies but a thorn
plucked from the side
no flesh had been torn
White sheets toss n tangle
cold toes on the floor
unfathomable visions
eyes closed I see more
Her inflow of breath
his outflow explores
the depths of her hair
do please stay the course
There’s reason in knowing
what comes from the source
in the golden white light
of a new days morn.