He wore tarnish proudly.
Not like a badge,
More like one of those enigmatic rune tattoos
that littered his skin like checkmarks on a bad students paper.
You know the type...
the piercings, the ink, the punk-red shock of 'hair without boundaries'
He had meticulously cataloged his every indiscretion,
I found myself leaping to his defense,
but he would have none of that.
'It's who I am. It's what I've done.'
Just another River Boy,
A tourist in the dream scape of reality.
He wandered onto the ruins of the unknown..
As his mind sought out the universe in
the starry skies above.
He understood the signs
that others are still trying to decipher.
Symbols written in stone with blood,
and messages chiseled on the soul by the wind.
They say that you can 'catch' a glimpse,
But this is no more possible
Than folding smoke in your fingers.
The firmer your grip, the less you will hold
May you find a newer,
gentler path among the stars.
And may it be your trumpet
To herald the end.
Lynne FincherSpringarden's Other Poems
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