Putting his best foot first off the ledge of the bed,
As the sun slowly glistened outside,
Striking its rays at the ground in installments,
The tired bed-covers hugged the floor,
And he arranged his feet level to the door.
His habits reflected conditions,
And he practiced life like it was his religion.
What felt strange then was the complicated information;
The distance between him and the door,
Could be the same as him and his past.
If it was locked in dimensions of numerical measurements,
And pensive estimations.
Maybe all that was suspended between today and yesterday,
Was a brick bedded bridge.
He made his way back to then.
And he held the door undone for a while,
He was open for the time.
Don't let him see through the clocks,
Now running races before his eyes,
He twisted their arms to meet, and to lap over one another,
And when what he was winding was wound,
What he was finding was found.
The separation and space,
Was a little more than his legs could fathom without numbing.
So, he went back to sleep,
In his favorite place,
Next to the sunrise,
Wearing water on his skin.
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I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...
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