There was a lifting
of dreams, a rising of hope.
An overreach through
memories.
A rhythm of power covering
the wounds of neon’s from
towns without names and
unfamiliar faces.
He was a velvet hitchhiker
searching for a yawn of
Relief.
Secret angels touch the soul
of his shoulder guiding him away
from creative misfortune.
Trumpets of winds whisper.
He sees the good in uncertain
eyes.
He stands to the right of his
shadow.
Roger Singer 