Flying wingless around the Sun once again, I gaze at my past
through broken binoculars borrowed from the old man in the clock. And when the leaves start to fall from the
overdue library books, I begin to paint my lost dreams in the wet cement. Oh why does the celebration table seem to
sink into quicksand before I can blow out my candles and as the chatterbox winds
blow my hair made of sand, I wonder if we will meet on the other side of the
brick mirror in the paper Mache church.
For the dancing stain glass sings to me as I capture pictures with my
invisible camera on a string and search for a light bulb In the tangled
Christmas lights in my head. And as the midnight typewriter on my bed reaches it’s last page for the evening, I take the eraser from my tongue to
clear the night sky so we can dance with these lovely bones into my ocean of old
TV trays as we pass notes with my grandfathers old coffee can. And when God’s light switch turns on that new
days sun, I will be ready to fly once again with friendship bracelet alarm
clocks and clouds made of softly spoken prayers to help guide me through this amusement
park map of life.
