A breeze danced on my face
This morning at sunrise
Isn’t that what heaven is
From the pines I could hear a lark sing
And I think she agreed with me
I wanted to tell you
But you were still sleeping
So soundly, like a child
A hungry man begs in front of a grocery store
A hard and sad irony under a golden sun
That graces a lovely blue sky
I learn the prayer
And then live with it
Until my time is up
It could be that we're all just talking in our sleep.
Like we're the extra people in someone else's dream
Saying words thought up by some other person
Not even living our own lives
James Lee Jobe
There is a charge for the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge for the hearing of my heart.
Sylvia Plath
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| The late Francisco X. Alarcon. Very missed. |
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James
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