wishing flies fly west for the spring.

Words sketched on old napkins. Time is asking for the hold of perfection. And I believe it is all a game. Those ideas will perish. Those feelings will fade. And this taxi ride will come to an end. You see the driver is looking through the rear-view mirror. A peep show of sorts. These chills they stay in the air. Perhaps it’s the destined aura of smiles tainted. There is a trust that asks for more. The talk it talks. And the walk it walks. But it’s just another day on this boulevard. And it’s another life misplaced. Are your thoughts all out on the table? It’s another number in the math book. Hey, do you have medicine for this disaster? I think I want to run and catch the wind. You in or are you out?

Now its nothing more than a faith deciphered by bar stool philosophers. It’s another day. It’s another time. It’s another life. I sing and they listen. I finish the song and they clap. Do they like it? Perhaps they are just being polite. I don’t know. And I don’t need to know. They say I should count my blessings and wish upon stars. But what if the stars fade and the sky is empty? Who do I look up to then? These masks of feelings will heal. A goodbye of sorts. A train that runs through town. The distance between one and two. These lights they blind my mind. I have a headache. And my coke with no ice is not here. And days, they go by. I miss a little each day. I stay in this. I do my own thing.

The first day of spring is here. And the window looks through you. Blue and gray. Let’s lose it all. Because they say happiness is a parasol. The empty is a void. And the terms of this agreement are illogical. I have to move it. The local café is no longer crowded. And I stare at the sky. Will the storm wait for me? I want to make my way upstream. Concede your pledge. And I will write you a new song tonight.
Nothing changes. It’s upside down. But not inside out. Glitters are easy. And these roads moan of restitution. And I will not lie. These thoughts enter my mind. And it’s a landslide of paranoia. On your terms you need. Can you run and chase the wind with me? There are these eyes and there is this laughter. Standing faced down will not heal. How should I dispose of these napkins filled with ink? The thoughts rambled in jots. And the sparks, they fly even in the dark.

So I sing. And I write. And I paint. And I think. And I think. And it escapes my soul as I strum the six strings. These eight napkins of sacred memories are what I see, and hear. My favorite song becomes my life. Real life isn't perfect. And i love that about life. So i sing. And i write. And i paint. And i think. And i think.