by Benjamin White.
-1-
Directions take chances on being mistaken
And are never certain about right or wrong
As destinations go along with the arrows
And the labels printed on signposts
Where ghosts hold on with the patience
Of stillness that refuses to point a way
Or explain what would have been better
Or worse in the haunted forward,
Reverse, left, or right never meant
To ignite a flame for the unknown
Traveling alone with guesses cloaked
Beneath the smoke swirling in the clearing
Where light and dark are both fearing
The decisions made in thickening shadows
Outlined by the propped up silhouettes
Of regrets that quietly hold hands with choices
Until every mistake voices its hunger
When yes might stop the clocks
But time never gets any younger…
-2-
Calendars wait for the crayon X
To cross out the next block every day
Watching numbers pay their own admission
Into the position marked by progression
Through the sunrise hope of a morning’s dream
Shining on the extreme possibility
Strengthening the fragility of fear
While trying to adhere to the wonder
Of coincidences, circumstances, and faith
In a chance to stop taking chances
And settle into patterns of routines
Where momentary scenes line up in years
To disappear behind forgotten milestones
Placed along the twists and turns of lessons learned
And documented in personalities
Where present attitudes towards honesty
Keep complacency glittering on display
Where yes measures incremental hours
But time won’t change from day to day today…
-3-
With the rusted minerals of values tainted,
Positive perspectives polish the soul
So the whole world can shift definitions
Where want listens to what needs declare
And self-aware realities are balanced
Between identities and images reflected
In the resurrected memories of what-was
While letting what-is hold authentic ideas
Of understanding demanding those who watch
The passing of the never-lasting admit it
And provide testimony for history
So no one forgets the details behind
The dates and places in the ill-designed vacuum
Of the past that studies its specifics
And casts discarded facts unattended
Where the journey is defended by heated desire
Though the trail on fire only gets colder
Where every yes slows down the pace,
But time doesn’t get any older