Through the times

He sees the rain falling, a drip and a drop on the cold hard wooden bench,

looking to and from where the storm began,

the dark shadow filled clouds line the skies of the day,

he wonders whats with his mind, why so complicated, and why so blind,

sensory queues turn him inward, to the vacant spirit that held his hand,

whats the point, and why are we mad?

finding questions, leading like a ball of neverending yarn,

connected are we? Or is separate from eachother the more meaningful term?

Walking on, he trods through the wet damp mud that soaks his boots,

each step a concerted effort to get to the end of the trail,

The struggle, … we all have it, we all fight it, it is this walking through the times,

it is this questioning and wondering of who we are and are we fine?

it is the hours at cafe’s and lectures at schools…. who will find… the answer

not so easy but a large challenge, like red large bricks that stop the individual,

like oil on a linoleium floor that cause frightened gait,

walking ever so slowly, ever so slowly,

ever so slowly and on and on,

He looks at the expanse of the heavens before him, it’s night now,

the stars shine and glimmer,

he wipes his boots off with a red cloth,

looking and staring up and on, tired from the walk he dozes off…..