I write a lot of poetry. It helps turn my insides out, in the best of ways. I am debating tumbling down a path of writing a string of poetry under this title. This is the opening piece:
Where do all the lost friends go?
A time involved so deeply still,
you reach and grab and take your fill
of love or like or passions’ hands –
you kiss and laugh and traverse lands.
A soul that life can’t be without
you lift them up, walls stiff and stout.
Foundations strong like bone or steel,
they teach you what it’s like to feel.
For months or years you nourish, grow
then wake up and wonder,
where’d they go?