Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Each one of these days pounds ego and heart into puddles spilled roadside and forgotten once the air dries. Sun beaten, any sign of pain erases. No splash made, these are the despised hours where an ocean’s weight drowns past promise. The gray was summoned! Greed and desire cracked each dam and then there’s surprise when the floods tore apart every structure in place? Arrogant, this mourning. Lying prostrate waiting for the executioner’s bullet when the gun was always in hand. Light holds no truth, and darkness brings quiet longing for that which was laid to waste. Something will grow from this splintered soil; no ground is so inhospitable that time, light and showers can’t challenge. So this killshot awaits, the bullet case cracking as a seed and birthing the next great whimsy. Silver-lined, it’ll seek open audience with the sun and clouds, but bloodstains don’t wash clean, instead threaded into the fiber of each crooked hope. It’ll never be reclaimed. Past efforts lie dead in cemeteries of crumbling headstones, memories only seen in small reflections littering uneven ground on rainy afternoons. May the world go to desert, for while nothing will grow, maybe then too nothing will remind.


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