Old elementary school playground, after another shitty, bad thought filled night.
No red wine. No French cigarettes. Nothing but the soft whispers of the starlight.
I could touch the sky on these swings as a boy, my feet licked by flames of the sun.
I could find the unicorn in the thick woods beyond the fence, convince everyone.
I listen to the stars whisper now, words beyond our fragile egos and desperation.
They grow impatient, like prophets, watch us burn and fight with exasperation.
A self-styled prophet talked to me today, over Pad Thai and endless glasses of tea.
He found the words for himself, writes them in misted tables, but leave me empty.
A guide to the ocean tells me of my foolishness and desperation and washing tide.
He knows my tricks and games, but has no gauze to staunch bleeding deep inside.
The three saints, their writ and scripture, was left in the receptacle for library sale.
I have to leave for the wilderness where the Satan waits, have to go, cannot fail.
The darkness of night is turning a navy blue, and the sun is coming around again.
In the quiet, in the sobriety of meditation, I cannot almost believe I can still the din.
Bad thoughts come and good thought come, and it all spins the wheel of the moon.
If the dream can bring the end to tears, then there is nothing more to pay the crying loon.
No heaven waits, No God or Father will one day wipe away these tears, but I can touch the air.
I can once again feel the sun licking my feet, and if I can accept the rains, I’ll have so much love to share.