lightbulb in the hurricane


I've grown longer than these lines,

and heavier than these words. Walt,

where are you when the winds hold serve?

Since the world has shifted from your ideals,

and your pronouncements. How can I reach

these uninformed with thoughts of constellations,

and cracks in the sidewalk they will never see?

Or bloom spirit free with such limitations.

I view your awe, and wish it mine. The stolen

pink of a carnation wilting. I think these things

will be forsaken. The anxiety of battle. A yellow

pallor which shall not fade or tarnish from our lack

of connection. You must be sighing somewhere Walt.

Reassessing this waste of wisdom we take with us

in transit, and in shameless pursuits so stale.