REAL [?]

Is Make-Believe like Making Bread — pounding your dreams
into malleable munch[able] Baked Bread,
watching your life rise like bubbling yeast,

flights of fancy…
I am a Hawk tripping on the thermal winds,
seeking my elusive perch,

The Branch
At the top of the Old Oak Tree, Caw, Caw, it’s a Murder Of Crows;
Reality cannot be recognized without its genesis:
IMAGINATION.

THE STORY

When a man says he tinkers with a book,
Is he mending [?] let’s take a closer look.

How can a horse gallop so carefully;
Watching each step, yet moving so quickly?

Our lives, exuberant hacksaw heaven;
Recycling all, a needed haven.

The blue sky is often like fresh waters.
To meditate, sometimes, is what matters.

Coretta has rivers which run so deep.
To birth’s not necessarily THAT “leap”.

Her fingers went dancing across that page;
An educated Braille touch, blindness the wage.

Your memories are a black butterfly;
Shadows in the hall, waving “BYE-BYE.”