Any Point

Said something about the canisters and walks and then the raw potatoes by the fireside – still not feeling the heat; where’s the heat? It used to burn on the side of the ears into the morning and then you’d have an excuse to make up some excuse. So you can say once the sky goes a little bit darker – God knows.

Still the same one though. In all the words that have passed through the pulses and the veins and the sayings of the what-nots and all those other things. In the back of the head, it’s the been-there-done-that but still want to go there and do that. All over again. Even down to the last syllable. Gray, clear night. Let it rain, shall we? Just so you can see to the other side. Haven’t seen that in a while, save the day you decided to give it a go and stare onto that scrap above you. Bad circulation – breathing in what you breathe out; regressing.

The thing with it though, was that the ground was all dewed up and – forgive it if it’s the same old – the image was and is. Just crossing the road. Can’t stop the black drops and in only a few more. This street cross that street. It’s there. Not a print. Actual.

To Everything...

To be completely honest, it really didn’t seem like that long ago. Was it? Still by the pond in a white helmet; been there so many times but this one always stands out in the recesses of the mind. Even when flipping through the cabinet of unlabeled albums – dusty, musty – that image still does.

But now. It’s a voice. The wires that run across half a day, filled with what the plans will be for today and tomorrow. It’s a voice. That will meet new people, see new things; grow. Not by the pond anymore and not in a blue hoodie or a backwards cap, scuttling about. Or any of those things.

Before I even knew it, you’re the voice now. It's time to sing the most beautiful verse.