We are all delicious,
really, think about it,
in the moment,
the beauty of our grace,
our hearts have passion,
we feel, we design, we imagine,
we might all know the surreal nature
found inside the fantasy of our mind.
I would live there,
near all the action,
where a million different lives,
were modeled around
to be no different,
to cry, to laugh, to know hatred and confusion.
I would live on that block,
I could fall in love with the feeling,
of finally understanding,
we might just as well,
be the same as the other,
rather than continue the battle.
I would live there
if I could have you …
live the world in happy,
to fashion each other’s eyes.
I do ponder the many faces,
oh so many hours of time,
lost on the need to recognize,
a desire to know more,
for the moment,
these eyes, maybe a smile,
certainly the extent of a hot summer day,
coffee, laptop and a little music,
and am I a part of today’s society?
Have I met the standard of approval,
a person may suggest to themselves in private,
while whisking away their latte,
perhaps a chi tea, or the coffee of the day.
We’re all here
imagining only that which we are,
in the manner of a moment capable
of grasping, while all around us,
the life of others seems to replicate the same.
At least the coffee is fresh,
beyond the ideals turned stale.
We might just sit here every day,
same chair, same glance through windows,
perhaps never to be noticed again,
at least so the mind seems to say.
We choose our mood,
depends upon the time of day,
time of year,
time we stayed away from
wherever it might be that could
cause a sordid
amount of uneasy fear,
you know the affair.
We always want the other to be okay,
perhaps it is a personality,
the one we rather delight to be
inside a state of mind that allows,
to carry the weight of our day.
It comes in tears,
when the winds take hold of our sanity,
we watch the clouds convey their own
sort of spirituality,
that combined element of nature
alongside the human condition,
and when the storms arrive,
well, someone might suggest
It is in love
we find this mystique,
the muse of our idyllic fountain,
an eternal fire,
a desire to always know the beauty,
to run across the elegance,
in our every turn,
So to be forlorn then,
is it an unhappy sort of feeling lost,
or might it perhaps be
might it be,
which when we find our reflective
personality examines our reality,
we become okay,
with a little time,
just don’t ever forget what love really is,
I won’t, I promise.
I often wonder about notions,
an idea, plays out in my head,
I formulate my own opinion,
a funny sort of discrete decision.
Not yet, my mind tells me,
not ready to share with anyone else,
and there begins the battle,
because I do,
I so want to,
there’s a part of me that wants to free the world,
my world I suppose,
actually, our world,
because I think, wait a second, I mean,
we all seem to … have a want;
so that everyone around me will know
what’s in my head,
what I’m imagining,
Thinking about this.
There’s a rain steady,
keeping indoors the traveler
whom might be seeking the wood,
may stroll along the coast,
skipping rocks, switching thoughts,
contemplating the beauty around them,
the coffee shop,
holds promise to the conversations
around that though similar, seem different,
contain stories all the same,
their worlds are always different,
in the context of their moments,
until we can catch each other’s eyes.
We wonder about the people next door,
a table nearby our own private world,
did they speak of it,
were they aware,
was there a time in their lives when everything,
seemed similar, possible, simple,
perhaps it is true,
they say it often enough to never forget,
we’re all the same,
we haven’t any lead on the element of change
the human condition might experience the same,
euphoric wonder built upon manifest tragedy.
I was sitting along with my company,
my world against hers,
together we were watching our own world,
responding to the elements in a unique fashion,
yet still, very still, almost
in a sort of decopaged setting,
to be measured in someone else’s eyes,
for they are the judge of this life,
we are simply the portrait.
A stillness in the air,
while we wait the rains,
they might part to give allowance
to nature’s Grace in the wooded freedom
of a dense forest,
away from all wander of deception.
While I stood inside the sidewalk cafe,
I watched the people around me,
create lives of envy,
to balance those of misfortune,
whose measure relied upon me,
or my own eyes, or their’s or someone
with similar passion.
Yet in all of our sightings,
there seems only one reality.
As a young boy, he in the picture window,
would watch the trails of evening glow,
often wander in his mind upon a scene
unbeknownst to his fairy tale he’d glean
a story time, a response to travelers whim
that only resonated deep inside of him.
Oh to take away this permanence he’d feel
to understand such whirring of the wheel,
if by the instance of time in perpetual motion
he somehow be compelled to feel emotion
might then a pleasing notion allow a release
his frame to transport the window sill to peace.
Sitting by windows watching worlds rewind
their earlier response to the gradual mind.
We all might pause to wait upon a fantasy
whereby that love we seek may suddenly see
Oh to know the beauty of time’s recognition
when caught inside our dream’s elation.
Inside the glass will always remain a chance
recall of beauty’s elegance, her eyes enhance.