I once felt your steps,
as we walked past the midnight crossroads of the stars.
Upon occasion, in a crease of the same crossroad night open wounds would silently reflect the sky.
Once upon a time, the sky predictably opened
and silver watches fell out of pockets of time.
During daylight hours, upon the same terrain,
birds of smoke suddenly dissolved upon crashing headlong,
into a faintly familiar slate-blue sky
The cracking of wooden percussion instruments
in a broken processional rhythm
generated a slight vibration
and then an apprehension,
which caused a mountain lion to turn his head and walk away.
Yet, the sound that you hear in the distance
shouldn't be any cause of concern for you,
because it is nothing more than collective voices
crossing a battlefield, crying out loud "Mine! All mine!,"
atop the rumble of mechanized war horses racing to their riders' deaths.
Perhaps, just perhaps, we can run against the currents of destiny's thunder
and resist the temptation to wash ourselves away in the rain.
Maybe, just maybe, we can avoid the pox-marked road
that lead to the scratched-out address of ruins
once written upon splintered street posts
that lines rows of storybook fields.
Possibly, just possibly, we can veer away from the obvious
and go in the direction of what was first seen so very long ago,
during leaf droplet dawns, by eyes of blue seas.