It was an occasion for suspicion a strange arrangement searching for a solemn confession among a pastel of voices like the comma between two good thoughts of invading serpents and invading dreams where the best of plans are assembled for a traveler born wounded to find a way under a keyboard of passing clouds
wish me well I’m in a pattern of landing hard in this balloon filled with lead while feeling dark all over in the middle of the day when I know the eyes of a mannequin has a soul and a plastic heart truer than some that I know
the dogs of night get a new growl when backdoor clubs fill with evening voices dancers sway rhythmically within clouds of smoke lipstick numbers appear on napkins when approving eyes catch a glance yesterdays salted wounds disappear as morning stretches over empty streets
there’s an opportunity of attitude to go the other way avoiding the lines to immediately impose on something to believe in without striving receiving the interest of everything your out of becoming more than anybody not just an everybody leaving the rough road behind
gently pass through the curtains beyond the mirage and rhythmical lines discovering the hidden within the folds of dreams where fingers finally touch the eternal bonds of winds flowing below the wings of angels speaking of what was lost now found cradled in the clouds where no one suffers from being without
the gravity of shadows is a novelty of brilliance a triumph conquering all surfaces clinging with conscious desire following colliding passing over never complaining faithful right to the end
Over the desert floor high wires hum in monotone supported by steel frames passing messages relaying news births and deaths far below snakes and insects sage brush abandoned cars pieces of the unknown footprints broken glass a shoe and a shovel
words slip through boundaries of light and shadow between fences posts past sleeping cats words are strength from imagination fathoms words become whispers in night promises in morning begging hurting believing following into dreams yet to appear
she is stone a weeping of messages from the hard side of time she is a half open door an envelope unsealed passion fire burns within her tears are jewels spilled to the floor broken. weeping crystals, messages from time; the … More A QUIET STAND
She is an open field a spirit cloud of linen a breath between waiting the shades of trial and error a host of tumbling thoughts her prayers offered without answers hidden in rhymes and verse she falls into waiting arms like a fear captured
Roger Singer 