Tiphera

Tired streets have the most to tell Old stone walls and brick, Great watchers of time and Silent I stood in an alley, forgotten Where sparse grass fights broken turf And railroad tracks rest old; Older than the men who bound them Still more ancient than the world around They spread along the narrow way Only lost under their fractured cousin, Asphalt roads hardly cared for themselves. Grime covers everything, waste Bottled and papered, white, brown, Black And there I am Weak eyed and poor of hearing Smelling only the strongest odors, Yet standing, heart straining, The slightest breeze rippling my blood, Sensitive to what

     Why are stories bound to rough pages and that ink which has captured a million thoughts?  Is there no way for life to be what we read?   Are our hearts forever destined to dream and never fulfill?  Why?  Has God ever declared such a thing to be law? No.  We are to be content.  Fine.  It is still possible to be at peace and joyful with what one has and still inject your life with majesty.  Drama is not always evil, romance is not always lustful, high language does not always signify pride.  The dancing drift of your feet does not threaten humility.  If I bow, if you curtsey, it is not necessarily pompous or any of the above.  Righteousnes