Towards home.

It’s a slippery slope you’re climbing,
Oh, and you’re climbing alone.

It almost feels as if there’s wind,
but it’s not wind.
Life has taken you,
and you’re wet with the moment,
your eyes see snippets of worlds,
that come rushing in as waves -

At the pond,
The sky bleeds in vibrant pink and blue,
impressing onto the mind great splendor and capacity.
the water below whispers peace, and reflects the sunset.

You take off your clothes and jump in the pond,
You’re swimming in the sky, so close.

Down the road,
the cement and earth around the railroad tracks,
speaks simply of barren-ness.

And through the walls of the mill building,
you hear a band practice.
An electric guitar howls, screaming above the rest,
Rage, it says. Rage. And you smell something of their lives, and budding ambition.

The town brings in more,
and more -
the cars and the people,
you can feel a many-ness, something splintered.

They look you over nervously as you pass.
Then look elsewhere for something else.
They talk as they eat their ice-cream,
A tiredness carries in their tone of voice,
You feel it as if it’s real.
Tiredness of living, of agreeing,
tiredness of forcing smiles without thinking,
tiredness of tiredness.

The moment their icecream is done, they’re gone,
Everything goes into a car and hurries home.

Night has descended,
And cast a dark blue across all things,
The decorative lamps along the riverside glow,
and you pause to take it in.

Your body is warm with its own intimacy,
As you walk,
you find a caress in each breath.
alone, you dance in yourself,
up the hill towards home.