Wanderlust

For the empire state with

a skyline that never ends

for a city that never sleeps

lights seep into the crevices

of weary faces, unknown spaces  

and crowded city traffic

This is for you.

For Broadway stages

And concrete pages we appreciate

Life and love and celebrate

How far we’ve come

And how far we have to go

This is for you.

For the nights and sights

ablaze by modern times squared

into marquees that make the day

run for twenty four hours

the moon is jealous as it passes

along - unnoticed

This is for you.

For the apple a day that just

might kill you…if you don’t

learn the value of sleep

or traffic signs

This is for you.

For the sights and the sounds

For the lost finally found

For the opportunities abound

And for the freedom instilled

by a flame and a crown.

To the Greatest City in the World

Grief is an interesting thing.

It’s a heavy, unmovable thing.

It’s the feeling of drowning in an invisible ocean of  half-hearted breaths and salty tears.

Grief is fog that fills up and affects everything around it.

People can’t bear to see it... People can’t bear to feel it...

Yet it wraps its fingers around you and makes you feel it.

It’s the urge to look away. It’s the murmur in your heart that  begets the pain from seeing it.

Grief is a tricky thing.

There’s no real cure for it. Some cry. Some sleep. Some deny. Some dive headfirst into it. Some come back up for air...                                             ...and some don’t.

It can come for you at anytime it pleases Like a time bomb with an invisible clock

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You can’t see it (yet) You can’t feel it (yet) But you know it’s there And that it’s coming.

Because grief is inescapable... Like your next breath. If you don’t forget to breathe.

There is something nice in seeing;    in hearing;       in touching;          in smelling;             in KNOWING;                and giving voice to, something so concrete that you know for a fact is true. Like the smell fresh rain or the feeling of it as it hits your face. Like the sight of a good deed and hearing the voices of thanks by a humanity thought long gone And knowing that there is still some good in the world.

Yet there is something...                                       mysteriously                                          attractive about a thought,            a dream,            an aspiration,            a belief. The intangible always has a way of arresting you trapped in something that reality just cannot understand couldnít understand unless it were willing to embrace that which cannot be proven true

The dust in the air

Serves as an echo of past

Maybe tomorrow, things will start to make sense. Everything won’t be so                                      Black or White.                                      Here or There.                                      Us or Them. The world won’t be so afraid of itself and the people living on it won’t continue to make it so.

Maybe tomorrow, everyone can walk down the street and be accepted for who they are                                  what they are                                  and how they are without the desire to make everyone the same as everyone else. Individuality is humanity’s greatest gift and somewhere along the way we forgot that

Maybe tomorrow,  we can find it out again. Maybe we can move forward and live without fear, love without scrutiny, and just be what we truly are: