Sinister snapshots force themselves upon an idle mind.
People go out of their way to tell me things.
It seems Hate is a word bandied readily in some circles.
And yet strangely, closer to The Storm, I am more at peace.
My friend calls me brother and I know it to be more than words.
My road is built upon these things, brotherhood, open heart, fearlessness -
real things which hold under scrutiny.
And I smile when I think the journey may take longer,
for these last months I have found the journey to be joy.
I am no artist.
I prefer the sight of a mountain to a Warhol.
I prefer my fingers blistered than inked.
My music is a craft, a trade
the exploration of wood, the obsession with detail, the joy of the spontaneous.
Saturn's Satisfaction in Hard Work.
Shoddy shoes upon a rocky path upon which I can hold and grasp each stone's tale.
The map that is laid out to me keeps me focused.
And the fire burns again, healing the cuts
as the scars ghost pale and pleasant.
Everything blurs into Hope.