The Trellis
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
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Awesome job! Very deep and thought provoking.