Currency of My Own Time

The little forgotten things

Moments passing 

Fleeting and free

Tied down now to the eternity

Of passing

Time flickering quietly 

Not kicking and thrashing

It’s the unknown riddle

I attempt to make the most of the moments

Fleeting moments

I should have known this

That in the tiny cracks of uncertainty 

Can take down the curtain 

Of flow of currency

I attempt at words construed and written

For the hopes of my own improvement

So in exchange of time 

Not perfection of pursuit

But the pursuit of something new

Everyday 

For you

Hello

Back on the road

Dead straight

But a little lesser known

Taken time to rest my hands

Made strides in growth 

As a man

Understand that time away makes the heart grow

Reflect what you intake

And undergo 

So I go

Mile for mile

I wanted to say hello

Since it has been a while

Just on the Outskirts

Bradley is a happy man

He falls asleep on the island

To the sound of a bellowing fog horn

Cutting through the air as rich as worn leather

He awakes to coffee that envelops him

With a hug

Rather than a mere raspy handshake

He is content on the coast

Billowing up steam from a morning roast

Falling asleep as the fog crosshatches the eve sky

Across the bay

Happy till the day he may day

Rent control his eternal protection

Umbrella’s held in rather polite distinction

Humanity’s bustle he has no strict participation

Watching the sunrise

Heightened by windy anticipation

However the wind blows

On the edge of the sleepy little beach town

Bradley has it right

Bradley is a happy man

Just on the outskirts of San Fran

 

Critical Description Rehearse

Walking off the tarmack

To a shimmering glaze of white capped mountains

A blueish overtone of gentle purity

Of the final frontier 

Pictures quickly flashed in a moments noticed

I remember walking

But I could have floated

Checking into the rental car

Stale air and stuff seats

Pulling out of spiral bending lots

Upon Alaskan grounds we disperse

What these eyes now behold

Could never have been done with

Critical description rehearsed 

Phone calls connected before our arrival 

Preparations made as best as we know how

Faces new gleaming with helping hands

Island time is a new resonance we intake

With a Foat Top silhouette in the backdrop

Down the Seward highway

We make our paths

And are already planning on coming back