On The Fresh Asphalt! Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Last
door
taken
away and
beyond the
love without
a reason… always lost
yet the will still smiles…
Shown a hand, a man; those whom
continually suffer passing every
spring after the hope for any
new promise within each
evening's burning
remembering…
A soul's warmth
remains the constant...
memories are those rare
as wishes keepers… held in a
depth of consciousness too deep
to fall down into in a moment's bit
of thought… it does take some thinking
to get to where thinking's taking gets you
down to, and on what level of depth you do
so choose to get into, from your thinking of this
taking of this trip down your memory's avenues…
And, when you arrive down there… looking for
wishes that you could continually wish for…
what are you thinking of wishing for in your
wishing for continually? Keeping loneliness at
length… how far away should you wish to keep
this shadow? You do know you cannot lose this?
The shadow is a part of you… like breathing… like
oxygen… like sunlight, or moon beams, or star shine.
Nothing right or left of your center is said or is read, or
is considered… the "politics of self" are the rule herein
this thinking… this tinkering with dreams, and wishes
and breathing in some of that star "shine" misting's!
The burning of the wood… the heat off the ‘still'; if
looking at your image in a black mirror would
only heal, or simply kill; just you…
Fools may daydream, tools may bring in
coin… whatever! Where were "WE"?
I took a break and went out to the
intersection to pull more than a
few blurpies on the fresh asphalt!