Between home and destination,
I walk where it takes me,
satisfying the belief
that all of us follow, eventually:
...As though the wind knows where it's going.
To wander for some precious moments,
looking for ways to transform
and then a reason to write:
"Jazz drums touch a sound,
Scratches skin in all directions,
Showing how it is I feel."
A step, a breath, a glance in some direction;
a thought, what I'd say, how long I'd hold her
...always leads to something brilliant.
And some steps thereafter,.. yet another.
But I am cursed with the worst kind of memory,
recalling only that which should be dismissed,
as with a list I wish I'd forgotten,
a list where only errant paths of light directing memory
may take me.
whether to continue on and move ahead,
or turn back now in hope for their storing.
But as I always do,
while considering how my life is one of a gambler
with the release of one idea
for the thought of one better
without knowledge that the former
will ensnare in memory,
...the breeze now hits my front.
So in my unwillingness to part with my love,
for I cannot imagine one better,
--and even if there were,
I'd still want only her--
home is now my destination.
How many times
I've offered a fine idea
for one I trusted to be better,
only to find self-critique,
which precedes the omission of all.
Thus, I am "Lost in Segue"...
and every idea I have.