THE STINT

It was to paint a jacket.

So that the verse could see what we all have become;

paranoids, suspects, pats.

The life in counterintelligence is a road that you may not want to part with.

Nothing was left, the people whom you thought could read between the operation, couldn’t.

They were caught up in it's vigilance. Sought to be heroes in a villainous charade.

A poetic justice.

A place where the meaning stagnates.

I fell for a woman who’s main objective was to see, but what she found was nothing more then a piece of art.

A cat who’s curiosity spun her world upside down. So she made collages

The hints;

to disconnect from the web of lives that are and will always be there. We have all sunk into some chasm of narcissism. Thinking the same, feeling ‘what if’s.’ Deteriorating into a fogged mute.

Truth; I may be poison to her hearts purity. Couldn't believe that warmth existed within that premises but it did. Maybe she felt it too. But, when goodness flows there’s rocks trying to dam currents. Her friends were coyotes on that trail.

I didn’t blame; when you try to earn a check for being a double entendre, momentous love is pushed aside. They, tell you it’s not enough, that the job is not to pursue happiness but rather staying awake, through the tunnel.

In the end I resigned. Traded in the hand for no decks. They used her to believe the jacket was indeed a profile to paint on. It didn’t matter, I was free. Free from all rubbishy mindsets we have accepted to be the wall marks of our first world terrain. The longing to be her guy had bitter-sweetness. She’d find love again, with me, or a waiting suitor who deserved her sharing superb interest in being humane.

Maybe one day we’ll all find a way to reconnect to what’s important...quiet towns and coasts, the desert lights, walking barefoot, countless steps to natural wonder. Nothing matters more now.