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
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