Wednesday weighs with warmth, warranting walkers with wonder which wanes when whispers wring wounds.
W
The Shield
The platinum vehicle shielded from stranger’s inspections and protected vulnerabilities, those pertaining to appearance. The wait prolonged comfort conceived in the stuffy compact before entering the thriving venue. Digits on the clock slowly changed forward and back, and droplets of perspiration gathered around the hairline. A whole five minutes, elapsed, a friend unaccounted for.
Baby you can drive my car…
Mirror Mirror
The manageable disarray holds space captive in a stagnant black and white. The mirror mirrors those qualities, which are undesirable and binding. The cluttered emptiness is engulfed with the weight of nothingness, and preserves its state, dignified.
Like this:
No step forward
The precipice revealed a concrete candor. It honored the fictitious boundary that segregated latitudes. It reflected on the array of intangible dimensions, if any. It observed from above, from an angle of permanence, to forsake a participating role in time.
Like this:
Leg up
They too, live for admiration; wrapped in sheer threads, seemingly enduring. The bait, still it waits, for a sight of validation. No leg up for the lured, must stay put for a formal invitation.
De Marcha
The heat of summer gripped its final days. The Italian sabbatical culminated in a day long stroll through cobbled and narrow Madridian streets. A broken heart shackled by circulating thoughts, nauseating the inner compass. Each step grew heavy as young memories pumped through an injured ticker. The sun had set, and stones emitted remnant waves of heat. They melted moving lights, impaired my judgement for a slight second, only to revive longing to return home.
Like this:
If you miss it,
Don’t fret at once if you miss it,
It will return one day if you miss it,
If it arrives too soon, will you miss it?
Humdrum
The automatic pilot shifted me to an intermittent reality. It came about gradually; the temperate climate and steady traffic granted me a view I had declined to acknowledge in my humdrum week. The building’s weathered brick ensemble featured a plain cylinder which preserved a long forgotten identity, the brewery.
On Empty
Barely here, barely there,
Existent in another realm,
No outlet for aimless sentiment,
Trapped, permeates clogged pores,
They slowly slither off the hip, adrift with no place to sit.
Devoid of an audience,
Never take center stage,
No limelight will evaporate you, impossible to transcend you,
Never to return, to the space you inhabited,
Running on empty
- Barely
Quarantine
A Light Sequence
A light sequence illuminated the dingy carpeted walkway. Residual happiness encased, displays fragments of a better life, revived under anemic waves of light. I near the end of the walkway to an ornate elevator, the operator presses a button, and off I go to the top.
A fluky encounter with Mr. Dick delivered meaning to the ramble of the night. He stood perplexed by his mirrored habitat, consoled by infinite projections of himself. Such despair sheltered in the stubbiness of his chin, was slightly relieved by my intrusion.
Then there was Bobby, entertained by the altered view created by his fingers; didn’t say much, mainly watched, me.
Down Memory Lane
Mr. Dick
Bobby boy
