Oh, that well-worn stranger
who seeds the discontent
between sleeping grooves and busy schedules
He always leaves keys
under the wet pillow. Spilled tears,
chaotic dream tracks, pined
corners.
No more choices. White
lie.
Just life.
Oh that well-worn stranger
who opens the Elysian fields of lost paths
and awakes the Milky Way trillion stars beat
to break the heart of the utter dark,
turning it into the crystalline spiral tune
with a stare that nests a mystery of love;
Oh, that well-worn stranger
He sees my eyes as two rising suns,
doorways to the body
of a newly discovered planet,
where he prunes the unrest. Oh, spoiled
night
soon to be seeded with a new daybreak glare;
black out recorded nightly extremes,
censor pages written in haste of passion, lust,
edit past,
script the present.
Oh, that well worn-stranger sits
in the back
of my mind,
always lies
beside me, whispers
rhymes in poet’s voice I hear,
caresses a memory. Makes me smile.
Heart bursts in thousands sounding vibes. Content;
Oh, that well-worn stranger
He brings back once freshly cut early rose,
mellows passing times
with a sweet fragrance
that dances us away
to the beginning of a new story.
Oh, that well-worn stranger;
How many lives have we lived
and never survived the end?

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