Pencil Strokes

Does the fire ever burn out
or does the dust simply settle
around our heels?

I want to see the small villages of
India, the towers of Russia, the
mountains of Chile, the colors of Istanbul,
the pyramids of Egypt,
the forests of Nova Scotia,
the breathe of my
first born moment.

I had an inquisitive dream that your
pencil strokes were incapsulating
the city with 50 shades of people
watching from the river.


This is a downward spiral
but nothing is as real as
your embrace on an urban
curbside, the salt water
still pulsing through your
fingertips, the ones that
drew the map to our treasure.

God talks to me, nightly.
I am his messenger, we
all are, he says.

The dream reoccurs, this
time with my lyrics written
in the sky over Paris, Milan,
Berlin, New York, and home.

What if all the people in all
the world could see the pencil
strokes, lyrics, embrace, fire,
dust, heart, peace, truth?

What if I could see you
walk through my door now?