It seemed to fight me, I wrestled without clean air. Maybe
Someone will rescue my heart and feed imagination’s lonesome sidewalk. Music for God’s calloused hands by his energy and through my head. Longing for woman aching from age, I keep working ‘cause I have to. Is it the art falling from my fingers? I can look at this blue screen, I can beg for the low turning river to save me. I can survive a baptism of thunder waiting for too old to catch me running. Yesterday I ate too much today I starved. There is spirit, my fingers feel the fire and I look for a place. A place I can’t seem to feel. How long until I sleep?
3/1/28 Ron Kempton