Outlines of A Portrait

Where the trees tell,

they tell stories. Of people dead silent.

Where the roads,

they curve through and around hills.

Where the children,

dream in the present and reside in the past.

The assembly lines stand long.

School seems to go on forever.

Towards the end of the line,

His tie improper, his face too tired.

Letters on paper excite him.

Code on a screen excites him.

Notes on an instrument excite him.

The rush on a motorcycle which takes you ever so closer to death,

The steps on a trek ever so close to the end.

His dreams may be many but a cottage on a hillside is one of them.

Get physical, he likes that.

Chips chip away at his health kindly.

A health which is not a concern when life itself is uncertain.

Leave God's own country,

Be God's own. Or be contemprory.

Leopards on a nightwalk change your sight towards snakes in clear daylight.

I live where the trees tell stories. The story you hear now is mine.

Who lives when the trees die? Who tells stories then?

Live like the trees. Live like the free, the killing spree of life, creeds none, all glee and wine.

Live like him. He sees fear, sheds tears, call near the teller of stories and hold him nigh.

The portrait is a world beyond the canvas. What world can I tell you of?

The world is mine, or so I felt. My strings broke, so did my code.

The self left the chat. I myself am still here. Here's my portrait, my poetry.

I try to be real as someone ought to be.