Perhaps Only Rainfall.... Poem by Eric Cockrell

evolution,
or perhaps only rainfall.
kind words given,
dripping from autumnal leaves.
rose petals weep at the funeral,
then drink till dawn.
and old men draw highways,
that lead to the eyes.
destiny, dirty socks
and old coffee cups.
while shadows taste like the dirt,
on the bank of the creek.
the cry of freedom seems bitter,
somewhat hot to the touch.
as the face of the stranger,
dissolves in the mirror.
the sky still as if waiting,
drawn by the memory of wings.
the book on the shelf,
smells faintly of love.
time itself an illusion,
the spirit runs barefooted....
back to the wind,
the tongue behind your ear!