Tressling..

So many souls on a do-it-yourself trip.
The manual out the window, ready to rip.
Do you also see them through the fog within.?
Squinty eyes, pudgy fingers and lithe bodies pulsating..

I've got stars on my hands and clouds under my feet,
I'll even throw a brick on that glass house if you'll let me drum the beat.
We had a hole and we had the plug..
but shouldn't we rather wait for our turn on the magic rug.?

A feather that's come loose, run it by your skin lightly.
Close your eyes and let the touch guide you dreamily..
I know you know the tune,
Come on hun, hum it under this full moon.

I felt i was meandering through and without a reason
not a tear or a frown but a clue not found.
You have been the rhyme and the color in the day.
And now, you are just a whisper away..

Stand under a wooden railway..
Watch the train of life rush by, above you.
Feel the smell of metal on God's breath..
And we wonder, isn't life just beautiful.?

Today. Is our day.
Today. We begin our life. Again.
Today. Is you. Is me. Is us.
Today. Is a beautiful day.

and it struck me now..

..and the song played one last time,

and the bride danced to the rhyme,

and the fool wept over his last dime,

and it rained down at the climb,

and you felt the cold in your spine,

and it struck me all in my prime.

..and the illusion began a long time ago,

and the truth was lost in a shadow,

and now it threatens to land a heavy blow,

and the boat has lost its row,

and now I am the arrow, you’re the bow,

and it struck me now when I’ve lost the flow.

..and the feeling is new and not old,

and the greed is wild, but not too bold,

and the story is waiting to be told,

and the cowards are new, in an old mould,

and the strangle is strong, so is the hold,

and it struck me now, when I have no gold.

..and the war is over, but not the fight,

and the land is thirsty, but none can feel the plight,

and the sky is praying to see a kite,

and the window is open, but there’s no light,

and the child cries, as it tries to hold on tight,

and its struck me now that I’m the only knight.

..and now the book is filled with words and feeds

and the pages are confessing our deeds,

and the story is wound in some beads,

and the writing is bad, so are our needs,

and we may have lost the time to plant new seeds,

and the sun will set on this tale, on our weary pleads.