the wandering road.

Today the breathlessness came back. Sharp and quick and bringing ash and the inevitable dying: like a knife to the heart.

You know those hairpin turns, those things and happenings out of the sky that occur like summer rain and remind us we're alive and capable of more dreaming?

The missed fall, the wrong bus, the photos of all those places you yearn for through the eyes of someone you once knew.

The secret drawings of yellow-eyed cats on walls that line a little town in sunny-side Spain.

The blood flowers that ride the waves of trees: the content souls in India that touch nirvana from the heralded river of dreams.

All I want is this: if unknowingly I give myself away in time to the people and the places and the broken yelling and fluctuated ignorance and all the things I never wanted, this one thing I will keep.

This desire: this cloud in the sky. This breathlessness is mine to lovingly suffer: mine to dream: mine to condescendingly die.

And maybe I am a fool for this: but what scares me past the point of nightmare is waking up one day and finding it gone and not knowing who I am or what my name is or where I want to go: utterly content to not dream and not see and not hear: stagnant. Lost in the drudgery of a life lived by so many and so soulfully: painfully: endearingly. My nightmares haunt my waking days and there is dust everywhere: the broken kind.

And there: despite the doubt the start is already begun: can you hear the music?

A poor man's simple tune on a poor man's wooden flute danced to by a poor man's daughter: with eyes like the sun and a red dress flying like the blood of holy sacrifice.

Unwavering in faith: happy and utterly content in the coming true of a dreaming that started before time began.

And maybe I am the fool they sidestep, the harlequin in the checkered hat: but a happy fool I am wont and content to be.