Future Lives Poem by Lucas German

If words are packets of data with context which accumulates and links in a neurological chain, building a similar idea as had the one did the speaking, what precision in description is needed to convey the simplest message with strictest sincerity? A thousand written works of a thousand words or more could certainly not contain the range of thought and meaning which circle a fundamental feeling, therefore my effort is futile in that my goal is to be perfectly clear and express what I hold dear, but take this not for dismay since with a bit of luck I can still relay an echo of my memories and share imagined destinies, enough that perhaps your brain will contain a pattern like mine, at least of the same general design, which gives us the framework to inter-relate and co-habitate, for countless days conversate and play out every debate.

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But a time comes when speaking is done, when re-telling stories is no longer fun and wandering hearts feel a slight tug to run, and so we will, though together and up the next hill, to have a lovely quiet life with very little strife. Or not, if it matters, and I do say I'd rather we're world travelers, or hippie gatherers, anything but nine to five managers. I'd like to see Indonesia, then Argentina, to compare the rice, then maybe France where the summers are nice, oh and we'd have to see England once or twice, maybe Iceland or Ireland, Chile and China, anything you need to go we can find you! Or we could be stoners, just living room loners who smoke themselves slow and maybe even grow even though that's a life I already know it would please me to show you how much weed we can go through if our source is the back room and we've got bongs made of vacuums. If I must confess, I really care less where I go than who I know, and with that being so, this world could be mine to show if you tell me you're ready to go.