Urban Scrawl

When in the course of our blinding speed
You take down your impressions in a notebook made of brittle autumn leaves and knit together the frayed edges with string and lace
Know that life has never been written into a textbook
All the while, the grace you pray for in the face of a fading faith
Can only come from within yourself
Your rearview mirror is an infinite window to the past, frozen in the sepia tone pastorals of misshapen memory
Still life with delusions; some call it the good life
If you are alive, what could be in question?
This is our special liberty
No one asked you to be in love, no one put the gun to your head for happiness
But here you are, anyway
A sister to doubt, a lover of mistakes and the wonderful grays they paint your walls with
If you resonate with the echoing seasons
You’ll learn to love the way the city sprouts like a meadow in the hands of a woman unbound to the gravity of a pounding sun
In this way, we count the stars above us and know this universe is too big for us to remain alone
And we are too small to fear tomorrow

SF Spun