Walk Softly Live Gently

Chapter I



He carried his anger like a trophy
raining words like shooting stars
stinging
then stretching like and old cat
in the mid-afternoon sun.
He could turn buckets of sunshine
into sleepy question marks of regret.
Hate bubbling up from the drama
that hid in the carpet of fear
that bound his chest.



I saw the fear as another star
falling, driven like crystal shards
deep into the earth where they
rattled around like old bones in a coffee can.
Singing taunts like a leaky faucet
the creeping shadows forming grotesque
patterns on the walls of his
severely severed heart.



Chapter II



Oh, the sharp porcelain of winter.
The rinse of tears on cold stone.
Marauding words twitching frantically
as the tangible hissing of light,
rich enough to burn the pallor
off of the embarrassingly fragile
truth, like the scent of yellow silk
flowers.



Candelabra melodies ring
in contrapuntal rhythm to
the expletives that roll so easily
over his washboard tongue
sounding like blackbirds
cackling to the sun.



Chapter III



I was recently in the sunlight
crawling through the fire
when you spoke…. wanderer, forbear.
Were you not often broken?
Were you not afraid?



Fantasy is a sun, a fair valley
Fantasy climbs darkness
It soars in the brightness of summer
Fantasy is the dancing of all suns.



RonRusso