If i can just get out of here,
i will head towards the stars in the south,
or the north,
or the west,
or maybe i will take a boat,
and sail to the stars that shine from the east.
I will walk if i have to,
but i will not stay here,
for the lights have gone out,
the candles melted and power cut.
I will walk if i have to,
but i won't let my torch die out.

At the age of five i sing along to the radio in my dads pick up, it is older than he is. He smiles at me for the first time i remember.
when i was 7 my dad is away in a place with sand and sun. I would rather be alone than be who i am with. When i sing i am met with words of harsh tone and crushing syllables.
when i grew to be 8 my dad had returned but no smile crossed his face. He hugged me in the way a starving man would hug his food.
When i was 11 my father was away to the sunny place for the third time. each time he returned his face had less and less inside of it. I almost never sing outside of choir anymore.
At the age of 13 i make the startling discovery that i can no longer sing. I rush to tell my dad not realizing he is once again in the place who's name is filled with airy words with many Js and Hs. I do not sing again
At the age of 17 my dad comes home for good. or at least what is left of him.
At the age of 18 i walk across a stage with my name called out to the crowd and my dad... He smiles...
At the age of 18 i discover i can sing again

Soft Walks

My grandmother once told me a tale of the native Americans. She said they were one with the natural world. They skirted it in silence, their footsteps left no track and made no sound. She said they killed even beast with regret. Gentle yet fierce.

Intrigued i began to walk lighter. Every step i took i now consciously picked a spot for my foot to land. I used only the pads. I wanted to be one with nature. By the age of 10 i might as well be full blooded. or at least full blooded for whatever passed in my mind as a native.

I found a special joy in walking in the forests at age 12. Alone i did not need to use my voice. I found i climbed well. No one judged me there. No bruises no beatings.

At age 14 my imagination was kick started. My father told me i am an 8th Native! Oh the wonders! Maybe i am one of these silent men! 

At age 15 i killed my first buck.

By age 16 i was the epitome of silence. I talked often yes but my footsteps were silent even in the dried leaves of fall. I was shadow. I had become what i wanted to become. 

At age 17 i met. She was quiet. She almost never spoke. Never imposed herself. She always walked on her pads. I thought us perfect. She didn't. We did not last long. 

Age 18. I make my way through the house. No matter how i try i can not stop my foot from striking like thunder. I was never what i thought i was.  

The streets song.

The crowds bustle and movement was rough and seemingly random if you were new to the pattern. It was a swirling mass of life and people. One could become lost and confused so easily. A man in a normal suit and red tie, blue tooth in his, navigated the vortex with skill. The man was a successful paper pusher making a nice salary. His success and routine gave him a confidence that showed. It was the kind of confidence that slackens the mind; as he walked he paid no attention to the world around him knowing it by heart. His mind was on other things; numbers and figures swirled in his head in a similar manner that the crowd swirled through the city streets.
Suddenly he heard something that snapped him back to reality. A voice breaking through the crowd as it passed him. It sang an old gospel song; it shot bullets straight to his heart and caused the man to shudder. He looked to the giant advertising screens above and saw no cause for the beauty. He stopped his forward march, now listening to a different drum. It seemed as if the whole world sang the song, though he heard only one voice and he could see none who sang it. Louder it grew piercing every barrier in his heart, failing every wall. He frantically searched the crowd around him for the source of the voice, or at least someone who heard it too so they could revel in its beauty together but found no one.
Slowly the voice faded and the man was left only with the sounds of people carrying on their lives. The people walked as if the business man had not just been shaken to his very foundation right before them. He looked down the road spotting the old stone church he had always admired for its architecture. He started off in that direction, a new appreciation for the structure found. His mind was silent, no numbers swirled, no stocks, nor legal arguments. He marched to a new drum now, though he knew not whose.

The Canyons Song

The sun bore down on the mans shoulders. His face almost seemed leather; wrinkled, tanned, and even scarred in some places. The long days and weeks he had spent in the desert shown. His boots crunched the burnt dirt as he pounded ahead. The mans beard was bushy and swung with his ponytail.Everything in the world that was his rested in his leather rucksack. His pack was made of an old leather and a scoped rifle hung from it, swinging with his movements.

The canyon walls sang with the sounds of the rushing water below. He looked around through a squint at the beauty that is this world thinking of how lucky he is to have seen so much of it. He had been walking in the blistering heat all day. 

Then he heard it. The singing of a man beyond compare. It was the single most beautiful voice he had heard in all his life. It rang from every wall and shook his bones. He froze midstep and simply listened. For a moment he craved the one thing he did not have. Companionship was the one thing that was missing from his life. He did not regret this, but he did crave it. Slowly the song drifted away its echo still sounding. The man continued smiling at how lucky he truly was to have heard the song before stepping off on his journey once again.

Checkmate

i vanquished you,
or so i thought.
but you were just hidden in shadow,
waiting for my candles to go out.
there you wait, 

skirting my vision,
hiding in my thoughts.
were you always there?
will you always be there?
I can feel you resting,
waiting for a mistake,
i can feel you preparing,
as you play a game of chess with my very life.
waiting waiting for the candle to go out,
so your reign can continue as it did before.

Pack your bags we leave today,
the sunset of another place awaits.
ruck on my back, rubber on my feet,
i move again.
my life on my back and i wouldn't have it any other way

Distance is no measure when it is tales of the heart,
the hero, the damsel, are never apart.
no matter what seperates,
what is true will always flourish,
as long as when i lay at night,
my mind can smile on you