We like to think we see the soul, but what we see is a flaming hole: a burning mask of time on task all coffee cup, no hidden flask the smile that lies -- no lows all highs. Who knows where ends the shrewd disguise?
The waves are churned to foam. The sight mesmerizes. My mind is miles from home. My seated self does roam -- chaos that surprises, like waves are churned to foam. Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome, hustler mistrust arises. My mind 's wary of home. I focus on the chrome, but my ear recognizes the waves that churn to foam. I've vagabond chromosomes, but still the thought chastises: "Your mind is miles from home!" I'm sitting all alone, and my mind surmises: Like waves churned to foam, your mind 's so far from home.
Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud -- early -- And so it waits in its cloud, like the awkward party guest who sits in his car, waiting to be fashionably late, but - not having decoded what "on-time" really means - arrives early, nevertheless.
I walked a snowy street, quietly as the falling snow, a snow that melted under foot, not one that crunched - compacting. Everything was deadened by that not-so-cold snow, a snow that swallowed sound, a snow that would have shunned light -- had there been any to shun. But it was night, and I was walking in the snow.
I walked beside the river, the river that rolled through town, a town I thought had been a dream, a dream replayed night after night, nights that flowed like that river, the river that rolled through town.
I saw a silhouette in the moonlight, a man who plodded snow that glowed moonlight. I was mesmerized by the vagabond -- a night-owl nomad moving by moonlight. What'd take me out into that night's cruel cold, seeing only what shone in the moonlight? A deadly urgent case must be afoot, a riddle solved solely in harsh moonlight. But maybe there's no beauty like the moon, and maybe no light flatters like moonlight. If so, the cold must be some puny stakes against the milky glow of brisk moonlight. And so I pull on boots and tug a hat to venture out amongst the pale moonlight. And seeing night as did that wanderer, I know the virtue life finds in moonlight.
An anvil crawls across the sky, of soft shape but steel gray, and I wonder when to expect the inbound tempest fray? When comes the lightening and thunder, the shaking window sills, the neck hairs standing upon end -- herald of lightening chills? Will it pass by rumbling distant or strike the local spire? Will it rain so hard that it puts out its own blazing fires?