The "last round" bell clanged, sending
Island night owls slowly shuffling out.
Drunkenly, Ernest eyed the lighthouse above tops of trees
Showing the way home, stumbling back from Sloppy Joes.
Cracked chips of paint cling
To his hands in the humidity, from clutching too tightly
At railings, mounting the porch steps where
Six-toed felines and a wife wait on Whitehead Street.
Clickity-clackity, composing chapters, putting genius on paper
Before electroshocks and shotgun solitude can take it away
Like Castro confiscated his Cuba, leaving
An old man and his sea of sorrow, stretching
Ninety miles to Havana Harbor.
sleep comes for me on dark wings
faintly stirring this world-weary;
careful traces on stones at night
of a crisped autumn leaf crackle
dessicated and downtrodden
while in the skies above,
pulsars wink out
and the suns grow dim
empty empires long vacant
amplify, echo the hollowhaunt
these hollow broken—these hallowed halls
strains and swells the sweet-sorrowful,
soulless, unbodied, undying
"I look out the window
The birds are composing
Not a note is out of tune
Or out of place
I walk to the meadow
And stare at the flowers
Better dressed than any girl
On her wedding day
So why should I worry?
Why do I freak out?
God knows what I need
You know what I need
Your love is strong."
- Jon Foreman, "Your Love is Strong"
But I had hardly seen a thing until I gave a golden ring to the one who gave her heart to me. And I became a world traveler - That's the day I hit the road. 'Cause I walked the hills of the human soul, of a tender girl. I'm a world traveler; She opened the gate and took my hand and led me into the mystic land where her galaxies swirl.
So many mysteries I never will unravel... I want to travel the world.