Crossing a Wooden Bridge
From present to past and future returns
Present are we — breathing life into the dead carcasses of walking dead — we remain until a mule spattering disgust kicks us on the painted canvas we are attempting to hang for all to see. Chop wood, carry water — always the go-to internal response — with the villagers trying to knock our vessel into emptied broken pieces.
Breathe again — stepping onto the broken bridge — cautiously walking into the past — the origin of fleeting thoughts. Aged and worn are the timbers held with rusty nails — piercing the flesh with unspoken words — reaching to heart-centered beginnings like a sliver caught under the first few layers of flesh — painful remains of a battle with peace and tranquility — crossing a wooden bridge to past and future returns.
Like cheap perfume existing on our minds — offensive firstly — then permeating into a fieldless blossom of heart-smelt knowing of truth in the cheapest of storylines to the finest of china serving up a loving heart-song for all to hear — bringing us to our favorite tune — emitting true-self with every kissing of steps upon the mother birthing us all.
No bells and whistles — cliché as we speak — our truth sounds like a recorded message from the ancients — as it was in the beginning. Creative or destructive tongues-speaking…
