The Violen's Whine

Sighing windblown clouds
slither across the steel skies
who’s face has aged into a
constant downturned lining.

Thoughts come like dusty
sunbeams through my blinded
garden of avoidance.
My eyelids can’t stop the light.

My Hollywood decision only
glittered on camera.
Opening the window and thinking
it a door is a foolish exploit .

I can always lift the corners
of my cracked lips, and force
the warmth of hope to enter
but even hope needs to breathe.

I trust the road and I have faith
that the wind will land me where
I can bloom, but doubt pervades
even the stalwart drifter.

I can’t say I have a plan,
and I certainly have no
step by step instructions.
I can’t pretend I don’t feel lost.

However I think if I put out my foot…
perhaps the golden bricks will line up.