I hope to see the hills.
I hope to see rolling hills.
Ones that seemingly never end.
Ones that I can't find
the words to describe.
I know there exists
such feats of nature out there.
I've seen it with my two eyes.
Where the land has been untouched by the ignorance of man.
Where I feel lost to time.
Yet cannot seem to spend enough of,
round these mountains that wind.
I felt the hills below me,
Undulating,
Without sin,
Innocent as the cries of a new born child.
I felt all that and more,
Simply under my feet.
What more could I have gauged had I lay down,
Peering into the blue skies above
With an empty stare.
It is there that I know what it is to be human,
Where things made sense.
I hope to see the hills again.
I hope to see them rolling.
Live a lost life Is a life full of darkness No way out Your mind keeps you down Stressed out Trying to figure out What you’re about But how can you find out When your vision Is neither here nor there Focus on a point And walk towards it Scratch that Run Sprint With full speed Like the steps underneath your feet are guaranteed Like the cement of a sidewalk Or the sound of pages in a book. You’ll find out what these things mean When you can see the ground beneath Your feet.
I’d been walking up the muddy track for a while, beautiful vistas here and there coupled with a big drop off just metres next to me. Most things in life had that balance Between beauty and death. Up further along I had spotted A wooden thing Just stood there. It didn’t belong there Or at least not In a natural sense of the term. Unlike the flowers and trees that existed around it That for-one-reason-or-another, chose that particular spot to live out the rest of its life, this, had had no choice of its own. I mean how could it? An inanimate object as such, I can’t even say it chose to look the way it did. No, That was up to the designer or in this case, the wood worker.
I was closer to it now the distance between it and I a matter of centimetres. A door. It was a door. A nice door at that, one that had patinaed and aged through its intended use. Unfortunately for this door, It had lost one key feature. Either, through the perils of time or the uncanny strength of one individual. Nevertheless, this door was undoubtedly missing a handle. In its place, a chain. A door, chained shut. Which as uninviting as that may seem, had a certain warmth about it. Like an old friend or relative. Maybe that was due to the backdrop, a cacophony of plants and branches that completely changed my perception of this piece of wood. If anything, this large piece of wood was cousins with the trees that grew beside it. The stone parked at the bottom of the door also did not add to the overall welcoming nature of this inanimate object. Yet again, it still filled me with warmth.
I’d have loved to have met the owner. Not of the ground that lay behind the entrance, but to the opening itself. Of course, I would have asked him politely, Not knowing the nature of the man who owned this door. Although the chains and rock had suggested he wasn’t a friendly man, or that perhaps he was and that he was keeping those who were not so friendly, Out. Like most of us who live day-to-day, we can often feel misplaced. But when we do, we will often do something about it. On the other hand, this door, which in one way, can only be described as misplaced, simply must stand there, in its awkwardness and all. Unlikely to be opened, used, touched, man-handled. So if ever you are feeling Misplaced. Whether that be in a literal or metaphorical sense. Just be glad, you’re not this door.
wear shoes, write poems 