Westward

Poems Of Hope, Spirits, The Book Of The Dead

by Cliff Rhodes

 

Westward

01/12/2012

 

On the highway again, we go into a new adventure.

Future ways of wandering souls are we again working.

How bright is the sun of our promise shining.

Fly to the west we say, where compensation rises.

Tiny moneys of our existance won't sustain life.

 

Dead we are on an endless job that doesn't pay.

Race to a new place of hope and more safety.

Failure to get away will result in stalemate.

Lazy loss of energy is entropy, lost in a day.

 

Awake say the spirits of change, fly today.

Take the bus, take a train, or anything to get away.

Your neighborhood is a cesspool of vice and decay.

Wake the dead, even the old spirits say make haste.

 

The desert of dry consolation is a paradise.

Allergies of regret do not invite peace of mind.

Asthmatic pleadings of, "don't go", make me sigh.

Alas, I cannot remain even for a short time.

 

Wayward wanderings are set for promise and hope.

Soul of my soul, we are together always at home.

No matter where we are, our hearts are together.

Ever flying above the clouds, we find a restfulness.