How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
A little cold, little wet,
a little tired and yet
I am here. Still,
full of wonder.
The morning chill leaves
little to the imagination
and much less
to hope for.
Expected, perhaps, as it
always is, this time, this
season is only what
we ask of it.
11/21/2024 j.g.l.
The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Even my name will carry forward
to years I will not touch. This certainty remains
as truthful as it is obvious. We exist
in this fractured reality.
We all will die.
Admit that and you will move
more freely in this world.
Journey or adventure.
Most of us, week to week, are not aware
of a destination or even our path.
This has been my familiarity.
No other person’s experience can be
compared to your own experience.
We know various versions of the truth.
Time is tactile.
My hand will cup a breast only while my lips
have a taste to be quenched by lust,
or temptation.
Others will touch, or wish not to be touched.
Morals coat any decision made.
Experience tells us so.
Any human connection is hard; even harder
is loss of connection. Emotions are a commodity
shared with few, expressed by even less of us.
Trust.
The mind is never vacant, but a room muddled
by darkness. This space hosts a scent
I will remember after I
am left for dead.
We will all die; most of us alone.
Admit that, and you will move
more freely through this life.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.