Good Life

The Voiceless Wind

I don’t know when

the time will come

when I won’t know

the sight

out of these eyes

anymore.





The dark, starless sky of the future

that I’m unable to recognize or even see

ascends in a gradient upon Tipton mountain

where the sequestered shape of the eagle

tries to penetrate through the weathered rocks

to it’s true, original form.





Let not the fear blind

of the future, fallen

but let truth pierce through the pitch

of these resplendent rays of color

that has not yet rescinded

to the nostalgic tone of the brown saturated sepia

that evaporates into the effervescent ether of all eternity

where the forgotten faces of the frame

can only be seen behind the glass

of the faded, family portrait.





Just as the eagle builds its nest

I will reside in the shelter of a house

and in the surround of four painted walls

hangs a frame on a nail

that was born from the twist

of mother nature’s broken sticks,

in which the very contents of the photographia

contain the captured image of the life

that has surfaced to be

—in the age, this century.





At the nucleus I see a wife

who may not know me now,

but she softly whispers with a tickle

“I’ll still love you then.”

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