Out in Town.

Fingers tangled
Like rusting railroad tracks
Dangle over a fallen-autumn road.
The “rough kids” joke
And smoke,
Creating memories
Beneath the seldom used bridge.
I stand out among them.
Yet I feel like I belong.

Wish.

She writes her eights
Like a child would draw a whimsical snowman.
She, and only she,
Knows how to make Peter Pan himself look like an adult.
She dances barefoot in the grass
With nothing but her hums to accompany her.
The child trapped within her
Always manages to shine through
With her every move.
As fearless and curious
As only a child can be,
She uses her time wisely.
Chasing fireflies,
Counting stars,
And dreaming her youth back to her side.

Hope

You are my lighthouse.
Your gentle column of illumination
Calls out to me
As I search for you.
A forest of paranoia engulfs me.
Hope,
Like a cure-filled syringe,
Injects itself;
Wanders through my veins.
A swirl of emotions
Perched on my shoulder
Whisper in my ear.
They collect in my mind
Like an assortment of genres
Arranged on a dusty bookshelf.
I wait for you to lead me home.