Braced against a midnight cool, the winds of change afoot, he stares into misty black, that lightless dark and bleak… The poet sits tween rocking chains, hand wraps the plastic grip, a foot propels this strange swinging arc O back then fore in endless flight… Writing via a texting board, line by line he types, never weary, (true tis a lie), a poem soon is born… A thousand words would be aright, but not this of nighttime fire, for warmth exudes on softened light, on porch the missing house… Ashes set the stage this night, violence to the black, misty awe commands a point, poignant the bittersweet… Where led this wild error here, tis place of burning beef, for winds dislodged that barbecue cart, who ever might have guessed? Blame falls afoot to missing mark, beef lies upon the ground, but flame on leaf, for lack of wet, is cause Say I of it. Caught in caution but not this night, Wet surrounds the ashen porch, where the poet sits tween the chains, hand wraps the plastic grip! And so tis right the time again as the poet reaps, harvesting the blackened acres of wild wheat , then post a prayer, rest assured, the poet is asleep! Dreams are dreams nothing more, unless dream is from the Lord, but lessons learned, may remain, if memory is recalled… It never hurts to dream and learn, weighed against the truth, this is good advice my friends, something every one should do, So sleep and dream with confidence, enjoy the midnight show, and awake without regret, this is true you can be sure from God it is a gift!
