I call home.
White walls
red curtains
and sundays with
kids in locked rooms.
You fill up
empty spaces
but the ones you don't
echo with the sound of
fading memories
fading into
oblivion.
Someday maybe
under this blue sky
that we share
they'll be heard.
Again.
I'm done with
being a hippie
and masks worn
to please everyone.
I'm beyond
opinions and trivia
constantly flung about
even in this sunny place.
But your silence
is all that
I'll ever need
cause I know
that it sounds
in the crevices.
It's late when
I return
and the sky's purplish
near the horizon
glaring headlights
the breeze carrying
a hint of rain.
Makes me think
of older times
when there was
unpredictability
in my laughter
and uncertainty
in my thoughts.
Acoustics
and intermingling
of life.
I'd started to write
about something
and acoustics
and intermingling
of life
led me on
to territories
I knew nothing of.
