Left to Write

An old-ish poem about my high school graduation, and my thoughts on the mystery of the future...

                                                   Keep all your Goodbye’s in a box

Leave it in your attic.

Let the dust pile up.

Walk away,

Turn off the light,

And shut the door.

Your future starts Now.

 

Turning my tassel,

Time slows to a crawl.

Seconds become Years,

And it’s hard not to reflect.

Funny how four years fly by

In just as many seconds.

 

So long as the hands of time

Continue to Tick, Tock, Tick,

We shall forever come and go,

That much is certain.

But the “where’s”, “why’s” and “which way’s”

Shall gradually be discovered

As the Future becomes the Past

 

Hello

Goodbye,

And Congratulations,

The echoes whisper.

This tassel tickles my ear,

And I’ve heard it all before.

 

That chapter has been

Written and read

Too bad I don’t

Want to go to bed.

The plot’s just started rolling

But most of My Book’s pages

Are blank, yet to be written.

Aside from a rough outline

Of Dreams and Speculation.

What will become memory

Is shrouded in mystery.

 

 

 

Oh, what magic can come

From 6 strings

3 colors

2 eyes

2 ears

and One imagination.

 

Images stream from my fingertips,

Ideas bounce around between my ears,

Steel vibrations flow into my hands

As my Guitar Cries Colors

And my paintbrush sings the

Canvas to sleep.

Its dream dries,

So it will never die.

 

I sit here,

My tassel turned,

Left to Write.

Author's Note

I haven't touched a word of it since I wrote it, so any suggestions are more than welcome :)