Elucidating Questions

I showed up on your doorstep begging for forgiveness. I showed up on your doorstep and you opened the door.

You said what do you want, I said you don’t look like yourself

I wonder if it was a riddle or a mystery.

You let me in you didn’t want to you turned your back and walked away as I came in I wanted

To undo losing you to a mistake I let go on for too long and did harm with,

Scared away and I wanted to come home

But you knew about him and you wanted to know

You wanted to know who I could be trapped between two and I said

I don’t know.

And I’m certain I ran into the skies with the feeling of it,

Because when it gets tough or uncomfortable I can merely fly to something new

Because flying comes easy in the night when the dreams are all just not quite right

Never quite the way they seem they should be, and I continue to search

But I always start in the same place,

Back at the beginning, do I run or do I stay and fight

And when it’s just me I run as fast as I can to something better

Anything better

But,

When there are others involved the story changes and I stay to try to keep it together regardless and I try to help

But what does that mean

It’s all only a dream.

It burns. It hurts.

Regardless of me and what I wrote I look back time and time again and see,

The words of a kind man, written by men, passed on to the very people the words were in spite of.

Passed on in a way that would make the ones who were supposed to be set free by this kind person who wanted to set people free of the life he had lived beside them

It would make the ones reliant and subordinate.

For power. Over people.

I don’t see that kind man standing on the hill far away in a way I can’t quite hear what he says but his voice is so kind you have to believe he cared about you too but

I don’t see him.

I look out into the crowds of people who stand listening not to the kind words of the new worlds but the totalitarian mutterings of a man with no one to love

I see the man he loved with his whole being enough to be half of him

Walking to his own death and never telling his own story.

I hear the rage.

But I don’t see it.

I see these people who pull the strings attached to the men who sit on top of thrones and spew the words they choose just as those who edited the book chose

And they shape and mold human beings how they like

For power.

I don’t see the kind man who would give everything just to see his mother and his father have something.

I see those thrones pulling the more powerful the ones who can afford to put their hands in the pockets of the words and use it

To get more power.

I don’t see the man who would take the shirt off his back to offer to a cold person in the rain I don’t see the man who would offer his last bite of food to a child who would have starved as he starves

So please don’t tell me who is your leader.

Whoever your leader may be.

I am indifferent,

I don’t see that man.

And in two thousand eighteen years,

That one great mistake.

Is almost certainly the reason that the words of a kind and gentle and wonderful man who wanted to give everything to save everything

Are still lost between pages unopened by the people who claim to have heard him,

An ancient game of telephone played through the veil of time

And human greed.

In the dreamless wandering the wanderer waits, sent along by the flow

The shadows of the snake, and the whisper of the shark.

To turn away and hear a whisper from farther away.

It was the last warning that tried to whisper.

If anyone could only follow along.

There’s something that isn’t the things to be run from,

Giving a look of complete disbelief.

Crashing into it every day,

Being closed in, being forced down, being silenced

And could it be believed by the watchers?

I haven’t heard them sing.

The twisting sky begins to fall gently, there is nothing else to the day.

The nothing that shouldn’t be considered nothing but it was to me.

Still I tried to justify some how justify the leaving alone of someone who was trying too hard to put on somehow a brave face how were the cracks missed I

Then I wonder as I continued if I wasn’t written off, couldn’t even think about it.

What is another lonely day in hundreds?

I still don’t understand why I have been sentenced to this silence

Have you not touched someone in days? Weeks? How do people live like this?

I wonder and wander in this endless dream.

They keep saying it ends, but it hasn’t.

It just got boring.

At the beginning of the year there is speed, growth, knowledge, the love of years past create the new, the green.

The warmth and fire of summer, one left behind in the middle

The storms and the rumble of the fall as the many things go to their rest, a reminder of time passing.

As it cools into the darker winter, the ocean and sky remaind, and though the end is found, as it passes in a strange alternate,

There is more beyond it, it doesn’t end there.

It continues, farther, beyond the flaming bear and the prince behind the dust, farther than the flaming clouds of hourglasses, horses, life and crabs,

How long does it go on for? Is it time or length? How does one measure the sheet?

And within the blank inbetween, the voice of a thing that is that exists, looking somewhere to the lights. It proclaims its existence.

Is it just a 0 between the 1 in the fabric of the coding of the cold and the out?

I shouldn’t think that nothing is truly nothing.