Nostalgia

                                                       

Somewhere in a dream, I hear the guitar strum like the thrum of my breaths as I stand

here on the path in the woods. I grin at the bleak surroundings seeing the unseen joke that clears like a break in the mists between the trunks- I understand that I have been here before, a split in the direction that I am going- do I go the way I should and not look back at my regrets and the other things that my soul reaches up from the shallows of my memory grasping at the feathery ghostly wings that flutter out beyond this darkness and the power of my wording sings itself around like the blankets of mists, do I stand here a lonely man or can I resist?

Somewhere there is a child crying with all his might, the fright in his wails mask that his tears are of anger rather than the pain that he must one day bear witness to as he see himself in others and then the desperation becomes so great that he finds that all his decisions have led him back again to his mistakes. Am I still standing here alone in between the cords that pour from the players' strings before the image repeats and I see that things that I would have once called the wings and somewhere out among the ferns I hear her rasping voice as the shares the wisdom that evades in the words that she sings.

What is love and nostalgia but the longing for moments like these that tug at my mind

like willow the wisps to tempt me and then to tease

then they wisps away out into the coming darkness like fireflies darting in scattered ironies

as you please, does it feed upon my own doubts or will I admit that in my ignorance of these ideas that fill the spaces in between the lines of text that I find myself compelled to type that there is more than this shadowy world in these my remembered woods

I can remember something better

and I should.

The wetness on my cheeks reminds me that I can still hear the riffs of the thrumming

of the guitar 

that I would swear was just around that bend in the road, that turn in my path, will it last until I can gaze upon this thing I would call peace