well

senior year has made me hate writing.

On the Road to Bedwyn

tranquility lends itself in the green pastures,

on the edges of Hungerford

through gnarled trees and moss covered leaves,

one is called to years long dead. 

tombstones bearing names of the abbots of St Laurence 

call as only the dying can. 

come home. 

for 14 miles along the canal,

you learn more about yourself 

than in 14 months in front of a therapist. 

and for three hours slipping into the water seems effortless. 

because I wouldn't even make a ripple. 

calling cards and ringing bells remind of the hour but the deed gets lost,

and iniquity rolls with the hills until the horizon fades into another dreamer's eyes. 

and that's alarming. 

you were born in a dress cut from a velvet cloud,

just above the hills of Eddinborough. 

when the rain cleansed the cobblestone, 

your cheeks so burned. 

and then you passed over the peak and I lost you forever. 

-

in Hungerford, a boy laced up his worn boots. 

among the graves of St John, a man trudged through the grass. 

14 years passed,

on the 14 miles to Little Bedwyn. 

Friday on Kingsburry

lights and rain are the only connection to home.
here time slows down and languages evade you.
and you have to pay to see God.

look for all the answers you want,
but the pews are filled with tired feet and worn eyes.
and prayers only reach him if you pay the bill.

it's 1:46 in Notting Hill and I won't be sleeping
for fear of missing another 18 years.
because the first time around my eyes were closed.


-


if you take a right on Queen's Street,
I can assure you that the man in gray is as alone as you.
head north on Paddington,
and the boy with the worn guitar is signing you back home between melodies.
turn left onto Russel,
and then right when you hit Bumburry.

and I'll be waiting there.
just as I have.

it's Friday on Kingsburry.
dad is on your left with the umbrellas and empty pockets.
memories of you are on the right.
but if you look away you'll miss me too.