High Noon

He carried thru the day shuffling vigilant eyes thru the center stage of the sky where the sun wiggles in between the tip of clouds to set and end the day. The traffic unzipped on the road and paved way, so he could drag his bones in their pulsating skin to his destination.

He studied sanctuaries of mountainous papers, and libraries of secret prayers but all he found were stunts and glimpses, advertisements wrung in stapler pins, and zero meaning. Yet again.

Does this cycle of discoveries make him less afraid to die? Make him more capable of last goodbyes? Because now he measures time in his head, binds hours in handshakes, and dreams at the blink of an eye. And he dreams forevermore of visiting those place he failed to see, his fingers pacing, and hair tracing the corners of his memories, ailing to stomach that slight twitch of the body that lapses in between states of sleep and awareness, and districts of travel and stasis.

Scratches permeate the membranes of his imagination in the concise cut of hope, and as he looks onward the indigo sea on his calendar, focusing his vision as the pages flutter from the breeze. His weariness hurries to the top of his lungs, and he cannons an exasperated sigh into open air, burying the days marked on the calendar, waiting for a howl of release.

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It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

31 thoughts on “High Noon”

  1. Measured. Remarkable.
    The words marinated but not in too harsh a solution.
    The pen as though rested after every few phrases so that their effect may linger in our minds.
    The spirit of this piece as though with its right arm leaning against a tree on a cliff top looking out at the possibility of a safe harbour far below and yet to be reached but shining.
    A shining piece.
    ✔✔✔✔✔✔✔✔✔❤ For the nine months in which I have read your work and one for this November bright one waiting for a howl of a release.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. October was secluded indeed. But it had a profound experience flourishing in its midst. One that has rippled my core, and transformed my soul into a more ecstatic explore of dimensions and concepts. I’m excited as well to see the ideas that brew inside a distilled mind and how they reflect in a blackened leather world.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s been way too long since we’ve got to read your brilliance. I don’t know how you manage to pack so much life, so many strong images that no matter how many times you read it you can still find more. This one had a restlessness, that calendar and it’s indigo blue seizing him through his day and his mountainous papers. And where is he headed? I like how you have left this open for interpretation.

    And this:

    “Scratches permeate the membranes of his imagination in the concise cut of hope”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you!! He’s headed somewhere again in a search, an investigation for parts of himself, and to transform those parts into an embodiment of happiness. That, of course, makes one restless.


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