Rest will always greet us.
And at times unprepared.
When those times we know
Are near...
Do we thank the times arrival?
Or simply wallow in despair.
For its not a matter of life.
Or how one has lived,
Suffered or shared.
Once we finally realize.
Then we're there.

Maybe it's to late
To start.
Surely I haven't
Lost my angle.
Yet here I sit,
Doubting.
I'm in fact escaping.
Using this dumb
*** pen.
To leave my mark.

A tale of woe for a jealous guitar
Desperate to mimic the angels song , the chorus of a seagull throng , the shrill of a captain Jay , the Cardinal in the first week of May , the bass notes of a bullfrog while his cohorts perfectly hum along
Compulsive Chickadees in the scuppernong bush
The buzz of blue darters in the blackberry lush
Tickle of wind bells prior to summer showers
The hammer of rain at a hundred miles per hour* ....

When I cannot
reach.
You breath me
out loud.
Cause my soul
to blink.
Pulling free
from the crowd.

Understand sound within sound
To begin knowing your own.

Tickle me
Into subconscious frenzy
Then glide along my
Charged surface
Where I'll guide your way
Along each changing tide
Which becomes me

A poet's words, so deeply veiled, can be truly awakened by imagination's levels of resuscitation.