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.
Mondays are just young Fridays
As with any of this, each or every wakeful
moment, whether horizontal or in an active
stream-of-conscious state, you dare not allow
the doubt to continue further than it has.
Yes, anxiety has threatened to mercilessly
terrorize the duly imagined joy you believed
worthy of, still you managed to quell all
uneasy thoughts.
The years in a vacuum allowed you to tend
to all that was required, though the wall grew
higher, and stronger. What force was able to
seep through the mortar and allow you to feel
hopeful again?
Where has it gone, that which was equal
and true. What happened to all which, once
again, allowed you to breathe fully and feel
passion only heartfelt words could unrest?
A soul can exist in isolation for only so long.
You stumbled slightly, yet took that leap of
faith. Instinct exists for a reason, and you
found more to act on, and less to ignore.
You were not simply fogging the glass.
You lived, if only briefly, that which you
were capable of. Brief need no be, if you can
harvest once more all that is known to be
whole, and true; and waiting.
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.