STRANGER

I am getting old, but the story has not yet begun to be told. I hold my glass of whiskey and bite my tongue. My tales of heaven, hell, angels, and gods are slowly becoming undone. I light the candle only to watch the wick burn, realizing I have much to learn despite growing old. I continuously ask myself if I have lessons to learn.

What is this bitter-sweet taste that lingers on the wisdom of my tongue? I am a stranger here and have become one with the moon and the sun. One brings me my darkness, the other my light in the evening on the stars of the heavens. I get lost in flight.

Who is listening and watching from the sky? Who sees the way of the lone wolf on a cold winter day? Who is it that I'm touching when my words go half-spoken until the moment i awake what do I give what do I take