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casts huge leaf shadows on dirt
and the mockingbird's mocking me.

"mockingbird,"
I put my hands in my pocket
and pretend a smile,
"some things you can't out run,
church bells and a wedding dress,
funeral processions and baptisms,
the cop car radio,

she was so beautiful in her wedding dress,"

I'm pointing my finger up at the mockingbird,
"so I'm a few steps ahead of you in heartache,

it was a toss of the dice,"I tell the bird,

"I threw a handful of rice."

"so don't look sad at me, bird.
everyone gets hurt."

and on her branch in the sycamore tree
the mockingbird's crying to me...

"I'm a few years ahead you...
Sweet One, lonely bird.

I've walked through fire,
stared into the wall of shadow and sorrow
into the cold silence of tomorrow.

I hear what you're telling me, Dear One,
loves been a little ******* you, too,

and there in illusion lies the danger
so please be kind, my friend,

the sorrows that never seem to fade away
become the grey, dark sea,
and sunlight through the Sycamore tree.
Time drags its bruised knuckles across the table,

each second a small, red wound opening,

the clock's mouth ticking—drip, drop,

as if the faucet of the world were
leaking something vital,

and I sit, watching, my body becoming wood,

the joints creaking in their sockets,

my mind a slow slaughter, wings pinned to a board.
Lying still, comatose, waiting for time to pass by...
Wondering around the
City,
A thought comes to
Mind,
Could it be you
That my eyes
Find?

Did I read you're
Poem?
Feel the emotional pain,
Then like two
Stranger's
Walk past each other
In the poring
Rain
Song
Stranger's when we meet
David Bowie
Red
Someone forgot the pearl necklace today
I remember seeing a red and white skirt
the sound of the wind was strong
a floral set of earrings
As the camera rolled
a pause stood in the air
there wasn't a single cloud in the sky
the black blouse was transparent
the red on the mustang
reflected your sunshine face.
this poem
is like watching you
over and over again
The simplicity of rhymes
freely flows
through the readers mind.
As simplistic words unravel
in an array of poetic babble
we channel
the memes of our muses.

No forced word can capture,
no college can teach
the aesthetics of laughter,
the glamour of grief.

The essay of brilliance
awaits in the zone.
The Muse and the Master
in the hearts of gold.
Traveler Tim
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