The Classy Public

The journey we set on is filled with promise,

Often so many discoveries and habits to share,

For me, Singing out loud and clear,

Only to have a crimson flood pull me into the dark,

The writing on the wall, is something that my eyes avoid,

But the truth is already there.

Bringing joy, whilst the grave calls me down, the end is never so sweet,

As the release.

All the broken, needs be fixed,

Till the last breath and the heart pumps it’s last.

With fumbling hands, I take the clay,

To fill the cracks and wait till the divine breeze blows

And seals it. Again, again, till all that we lost has been restored.

But it never ends. Which is a strange comfort.

Wear and tear will bring it to worn,

And again to be mended.

Never un-needed, just easily forgotten.

I watch your clear peddles fall,

From the center of your flower,

Weeping over the long, lonely night.

Splashing out over satin sheets,

As dawn creeps into the room.

Would I but stay,

Could but levy such a waterway,

Yet work, I’m afraid shall not wait.

As you grow older, you see cycles,

Wheels that spin again and again,

Until it all become a silly blur,

That only makes you dizzy.

What then my young friends?

Cry out “no more” and jump off a roof?

No my beautiful little sensitive artist,

That is just a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Wait for the sun, or perhaps another day, for it will keep.

Or do what your gifts gave you, take it as a chance to make it beautiful,

For is that not what we do?