When Wandering Headlights Weep

In picture windows across the world,

they watch, they stare, they sometimes

cry,

they’re the souls left alone to wonder,

watching the headlights streamline by,

like a slow motion ray of long wound

catapults of energy,

sweeping past the imagination

without waiting wanderers,

perhaps ne’er a question of why.

 

We all might wish to have that moment,

a second of their time,

screeching tires and suddenly

out the door, a person,

a human being assuredly defines the rapid

departure of any possibility

defining the time

we just watched sweep past our reality.

 

Yet for that next few hours,

she will, he might, and they’ll return,

to their security,

the picture window,

observing the reality with swift purpose,

motion by,

as if to recognize

there is no one waiting nearby,

only everyone lays ahead,

in the distance,

there’s the real reason why.

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Toward Slow Motion

I could dance if you ask me to recognize

when we stood alone we were the same

and now tonight, who would seek the wise,

who might find the other has crystal eyes.

~

How often would we shatter an elusive game

inside lies, suggestive reality

the order of Man called upon we tame

idle philosophy, scrutinized name.

~

spiritual in ability

forgetful the heart of the orderly

manner we decidedly sweep sanity

beyond the dust and cloud, a travesty.

~

wakeful cry follows an autumn concern

perhaps new, alight gray matter discern