I want to feel the cold on my neck,
The grass beneath my feet,
And God’s breath in my ears.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
I’ve dreamt about that cabin in the woods;
A fortress from the hurlings of societies’ wails,
Sheltered in the encampment of timber and mercy,
I found my soul in the mesas,
Upon the ruins and crevices of time,
I journeyed up the glacial cliffs,
Where warmth made love to the creases of age.https://cdnjs.buymeacoffee.com/1.0.0/button.prod.min.js
I awaken to the dew of nothingness;
Beyond the seas of tragedy,
I enter the plane of refuge;
No longer chased by the steads of chaos,
I am still as I ride onto the carpet of the winds;
Currents subdued by chance,
I dive in solitude,
But not from a movement of aloneness,
But of gratitude.
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I yearn for the freedom of the road,
Where the Airstream pumps the beat of my heart,
The shadows of the landscape,
Lights the caverns of serendipity,
Rolling through its divine,
I feel it’s allure,
Taunting and insightful,
Its lips pursed stealing a kiss from my obedience.
Love is in the details,
Hidden and coy,
But intense like the breath of God.
The sun serenades through the summit,
As the dusky sky calls to the nocturnal,
Boots cozied by the fire,
Releasing the stories it holds,
From the rambunctious of asphalt,
To the headiness of backwoods dirt,
Forgiveness drifts to where only the stars can see,
Loitering in contemplation,
The moons winks in revival.
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I’ve spent months in daydreams,
Where the mountain brooks flow through timbers,
I longed for the briars to pierce my skin,
To know that I am alive with cadence,
Lullabied by the breath of morning,
Stirred by the reflective sighing dawn,
I came to know,
Men were made to be wild,
With heightened senses,
Erasing the hue of artificial smells,
As dew washes away the contempt of solitude,
I am free where only the eagles can see me,
Laid bare by winter’s afternoon,
Drifts of capes dances in the background of fire,
The wood burns as deep as my soul,
As my breath labors for a full moon,
I swear at daybreak,
For I wasn’t done drifting in dunes,
I search for gratitude in the tension of remembrance,
As the new day incubates, the cauldron of memories.
I hold the mountains if they were my own,
Losing a part of myself in the sunrise;
The cresting warmth against the moody cliffs,
Hugs the snow-capped peaks;
So high they could shake the hand of God,
I sink into the forgetfulness of urban life,
As I fall in love with places,
That I’ve never been.
The blue birds came,
And I wept for the tulips,
For their bloom died with serenity.
The destiny of skies and objective ties,
My wrist have grown weaker by all means,
Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,
To horizons that fade with every tinge,
As a man’s skin hardens,
I clasp my hands in religious fervor,
As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,
Am I a man in spite of my weakness,
Or is that my respite?
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus,
If my gait stood strong like a Trojan horse,
Deceptive, but a well planned opulence,
Lured by the sirens of my own perfection.
Before puberty, the squeak of my voice
Haunted me tirelessly and unafraid,
Longing to escape the burden of boyhood,
Masked by the tyranny of expectations,
Cursed by a conscious vanity:
When would I become a man?
My frailness became it’s own enemy,
Locked in a chasm of regret and allure,
Running towards validation,
Like a good infantryman towards gunfire,
The blaze of contempt for my own manhood,
Reduced me to a giant without the strength, might, or height,
As the sirens of conformity,
Drifted me to the shores of complacency.
As winter has gone on for far too long,
And the spring winds foreign from rusted chimes,
I check the tone of my voice to see
If I’ve become a man, like Odysseus.