on the other side of time, the area between is crowded with shadows, broken promises and the right to be understood as changes occur like the flow of clouds, nameless, but important, almost enough to break into the blues like reliving the history of each year, after the first breath of morning as day passes … More ALMOST
the voice of the river surface gentle troubled deep the warning drifts past stirring desire and fathomed fear water prints, smooth circled twists, suggesting what lies below and out of sight the flow is a deliberate force to the ocean slow and continuous, unmatched, unchallenged
the last clouds of day are rooms over the ocean, curtains of moisture reabsorbed, exposing a a carpet of stars, glistening sweetness nourished by angels as we trespass beneath heaven
satin breezes like angel wings glide over the soul of water a cloud of mist, rarefied air, drifts within classic circles of style creating a message within motion, a language spoken without words
the gray of shadow light bending, fragments of words like wrought iron angel wings kneeling within a drizzle of mist surrounding trees shed of leaves, desperate against seasons strength, fail to retain the youth of spring and summers shade the moon rises strong, casting a glance over night
faced into seasons swept to the edges where clouds form at tree tops, lazily, like an afternoon nap as cotton curtains stir to the gift of breezes and bright shades of white reflect off the ocean, bowing to blue skies
we are the leaves of autumns fall clouds watch over us with breezes shredding softly the passing of summer its more than words on paper as the voice within steps aside the unfamiliar and familiar while time and gravity bend the shadows we are haunted by
there’s another place a city road leading to the edge where red roses color a meadow and a forest line provides a crooked path, like an open door, unseen, but known to wanderers, owning the sense of the line crossed over, where shadows are honored like myself to have been there once
turn arounds where roads end like poor decisions and empty pockets where dreams the size of mountains fall from the sky melting into an ocean under a moon where new roads fail to create change from unaccepting disapproving eyes while repressing sadness and an empty stomach
rainy city gray on gray black streets clouds pressed low shoulders in the mist each puddle a fluid fingerprint reflecting jagged photos of windowed people and overbearing buildings
Roger Singer 