Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Cute Socks Weasels and Wilma

The spark of imagination.

A child’s cry, laughter in the midst of pain. Misery, yet humor.

Callous and jovial amongst each other.  Whimsical.  A scurry of joy.

Stone age, trendy, fearful.

A guttural laugh cuts into the darkness, remembering wanting the days of young.  Of frilly toes and soft skin.  A coiffed appearance. 

A stiff hairdo, precision,perfectly in place.  Attentive, succumbing to one’s needs.  Without asking.  Being there.

What is it that turns us on to the days of youth? Beyond wisdom.
Beyond faith.  Furry yet slyly a coward.  Wanting to move forth.
Wanting to remain. 

Amongst the cold. Amongst the stagnant.  Always having the answer and not knowing.  A step among mankind.

Celebration, candles and balloons.  A reminder of one’s entrance.  One’s passing. 

The road of tomorrows.  Venturing ever so squeamishly.  Past the laughter, the spark, the intimacy of yesterday. 

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