He did not give his time away to just anyone or for just anything. He held it tightly to his soul and sparingly released it little by little to those and for what he believed to be beautiful and precious. He believed in creating poetic moments with his life, and his time was the paint he used on the canvas of possibility. The ones he loved he gave the most to, even if far away, separated by geography he gave them time when he thought about them. Filling large gaps thinking of those he could not be with, or who he had lost along the way. Poetic people imprint you with memories and some of those memories he had carved into his body with ink, to leave a trace of the mystical union of souls, places and time. Then there were those around him. The springtime people he cherished, the ones he gave the most time to. He wondered if they knew how much they meant to him, how fragile his heart was and how he risked love on only a few. He had survived a great betrayal and the wound was grave and deep. It almost killed him and the great darkness almost drowned him. Through the sadness the springtime people in his life brought him healing, softness and love. The fellow travelers on the journey, who took his hand, kissed his lips, slept next to his battered body, made love with him, talked, drank, ate, gave him shelter, comforted and led him back to the light and helped him make it through the dark night. ~ The Bar Stool Prophet
Posted on: Tue, 30 Dec 2014 02:42:20 +0000
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