Random (a)

...after more than a month of unproductive hiatus, here goes.

Wooden Door.

Because when everyone dreams the same dream, reality becomes a catastrophe.

How can a mere little shadow on the wall mean so much so as to call it a ghost of an unforgotten unforgiven past?

The marks on the sand do not leave prints of prances and dances, the very echoes of those laughs and smiles remain.

When the clouds suggest rain and the shouts entail pain, the wooden door closes again.

Birth.

Does it not proclaim the very essence of life?

Whereas the other wither away, every birth is an invitation for us to stay.

Because when gallows of moonshine and pirate treasures are too much to bare.

The birth of life is always open to share.

Fountain pen.

Every unsung hero's only weapon.

To expose tyranny and promote selfless, unaccounted, unrequited liberty.

To wallow in the street paved with rats on Victorian gowns and peasant on muskets.

When what we know is a weapon and what we do not is a sick corrupted den, gun powder revolution cannot bring back lost men.

Morning breath.

The first signal of beating good old death.

The boatman who rides alone is not only in need of golden coin money.

He needs a woman by his side, to make the ride worth every penny.

Chiron's creaking little ferry, how is it that the boat still stands when you ship souls a thousand a plenty?

Tire swing.

Vertigo and the play of light.

Sometimes, when lucky, a view of the sun from the far side of the twilight.

Winters only wither your string, they make me lighter than the kids on the playground swing.

Tire swing, may you not tire of the joy you bring, to kids like me and the kids of spring.

The idiot on the background keeps poking my eyes.

He asks, "Where do you get all these stupid rhetorical guise?"

"Funny" 

Retort.

"The abominable late bunny keeps track of my mundane sanity."