oh cousin, I know the depth of your heart as the tides swirl within life’s indifferences, as you salvage a smile, with two steps forward, shouldering strength in the evidence of good works, blessed to you to give away, with so much more stored within the engine driving your soul
we stand under a moon gazing upward at its silver face from our earthly spinning diorama of cities and oceans where we silently gather, leaning on the uncertainty of our place, questioning without answer, the miracle suspended in a dark sky
his face, locked in the evidence of a traveled soul inner sufferings surfaced as disturbed currents threads from his past acted as an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of his unknown parts
there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday
the eyes shut from exhaustion, releasing spirits from the darkness to war within, flashing concussive images, angled blinding lights and drums beating in dramatic fashion, anguished rhythms of air from my lungs, far from the innocent shoreline of sleep I once knew
meditation under clouds, eyes reaching upward looking for an angel and a miracle in the breeze, whispering a birthday wish while waiting for its release, and chances are, the belief will settle within, like a candle protected from winds of change and seasons yet
a gravel voice dirty hands fall and winter in his hair fire eyes looking for a curious glance as he points up signaling the end, suggesting everyone line up under stars and sun as arrows target the weights and measures unlocking the door within you
words on stone as angels pass over where clouds hold tight the soul of belief as winds push back and then forward to the promise at the highest point where air is fresh like cool water filling your spaces washing onto your shoreline the best of all parts
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
Roger Singer 