Sarandipity

Ruled by the moon, I wear jewelry like armor. Particularly rings, because I like looking at them as I write. My mind is a gypsy that wanders unapologetically. My heart is a homebody, which I'm working on. I am a Sagittarius walking with blind optimism in shoes that are way too tall. I believe that if you sprinkle glitter on something, you automatically up it's ante. I champion small change-- not pennies, although I find them particularly lucky tails up, but rather the small kind of change that occurs when you smile and someone else's day gets a little bit better. I love words because they are not elitist. Some people try and use the fancy ones for show, but ultimately, words are just letters, and there are only 26 of those, and elitism generally occurs after a much higher number. "Writers" simply put words in the right order. It's less like talent and more like a Rubik's Cube... I'm not necessarily sold on the idea that a person who can make all sides the same color is brilliant, however, I am impressed and quite frankly bitter at their ability to do so. I live both in the past and the future but tend to black out in the present... this may be due to a certain level of expectation someone cruel once warned me would never reached; I'll work on that, along with my homebody heart.

Sundown

Ink grease pronunciations of names in the flesh
Seven dances seen backwards by Monsieur
Alzheimers is a hangnail dragging across the lacework of his mind
Framed photos make him frantic as the music continues to rewind
Questions fly like dirty feathers as the once tight clock begins to unwind

Heaven only knows why weeks begin to feel like years
Napalm memories pack a punch in the gut
Like walking in wooden shoes with roots growing from the soles
Holding him prisoner of this earth

Defenseless, he opens his beak like a baby bird
While the moon pours poison down his throat
Bleach is sprayed across a painting that took 74 years to create
The beauty’s been washed away
The canvas left blank

The scarlet drapes are drawn
But he’s still waiting in the wings
Maestro promised him two more dances
Two more chances to do good
By the ink grease pronunciations of names from his flesh

But the music keeps rewinding
Gears unwinding
And that damn hangnail keeps dragging
Naggingly across the lacework of his mind
So Monsieur grabs paper and pen
Writing a note to the audience that reminds,
The clock of life is wound but one time.