• It's the horizon sitting at the byline,
    and you're just watching the stars up in the skyline.
    There aren't quite that many;
    Only one or two if any.
    They've all been devoured,
    Eaten,
    Ravaged,
    By the darks and lights
    of a New York City reminiscent night.

    It's the times when you stop
    and stare,
    realizing what you've dropped.
    You start to think very much,
    but it's almost like a soft woven touch.

    When the streams of white are there,
    Past, present and future collide to where you are here.
    You can't believe
    what you had already believed,
    and what you'd already believed
    was something not worth believing
    until what you will believe
    becomes what you want to believe.

    It's the memories that rush,
    painted by an oil painter's brush.
    It's the photographs that still,
    playing slowly off that old camera reel.
    Life flashback,
    Death drawbacks.
    The question left
    is one of hope bereft.
    What am I doing
    in this life I'm pursuing?