I saunter amongst the gathered masses,Small though they be,
And I am unseen.
Invisible to those of gender difference,
And gender neutrality.
We can gather,
Visible and invisible,
When we don't care about why we're gathered.
I have no place to be,
Other than here,
Where they bark, stomp, shuffle, and yelp.
Yet, in all their clamor,
They still do not see,
The reality,
Or me.
Wine is my companion--
Man's best friend--
It has been with me when I've stood on stoops,
Shouting poems memorized.
And with me at times,
When no other ears would listen.
It sits here,
By my side,
When no other could.
Could?
The cold reality of couldn't,
Is usually,
The more wicked reality of wouldn't.
I have no choice,
But to push on by standing still.
I am short of breath,
But long in thought,
The former provides evidence,
Of how far I've strayed;
Too far from my own path.
We sit down to rest,
Wine and I,
On a rock wall meant to contain fury,
But seldom asked to do so.
A cigarette, a pink purse, and a hurried brow push closer;
A living example of how far we've strayed,
And of what we should have long ago contained.
My toes dangle from my perch,
My path, above hers;
An innocent imposition to her childish journey,
Toward materialistic insignificance.
The distraction causes our eyes to briefly meet,
"Though I've taken this moment to rest,
I am not your place to rest."
My thoughts serve reminder:
There are many paths,
By which we can stray.
There are others,
Who intend to be unseen.
But I see them,
And thank them,
For the warmth that their fires provide;
Gypsies on the water,
Keepers of the Light.
The flames captivate,
Though that is not their intent.
While most look down into the spark,
I look up as the smoke starts its journey.
We must do more than see The Light,
We must be that Light,
And drift away to places,
Where we marry our dreams.
Ever after.
We aren't meant to be here--
Pseudo-artistic malevolence--
Lapsed into belief that the only treasures we might find,
Are discarded copper and silver bread crumbs,
That no longer lead us back home.
If we look up,
Instead of down,
And if we're lucky...
These pyres will burn,
In our names,
After we go.
Remind me to remind the world,
That we can still be children,
Without being childish.
The wind and the snow don't offend us,
The give us opportunities to sail,
And to sled,
Until one Light sets,
And another beckons us home.
Be forewarned,
Lest we forget,
Then find ourselves back,
On the crowded path to nowhere.
