In the misty shadows, she walks a specter, a flash of paint in an obscure painting, A beauty in memory, or an imagined smile. A man could surely fall for the mystic miss, a kiss in waiting and fading fast. Every last encounter with her could be just that. Alluring and luring you to the wind-torn seas, breezes to gusts and a bluster of rapid heartbeats, precious and scary to think she keeps you on the brink of your demise. You’d be wise to walk away and yet you stay. Love trapped within her portrait, and Jennie’s been dead for years!
He watched the sunset on the horizon hoping that she might be caught in that same moment where night and the remnants of day melt into hues of muted grays and orange. The crash of waves mimics the exhalation of her rapidly beating heart, gasps of passion rushing and falling; calling him to resuscitate her. Nightfall continued and darkness was the shroud that hid them upon this shore many times lost, in the heated rhythm of their lovemaking taking every last breath from the depths of the conjoined souls. Every last star beckoned him and the moon cast shadows on the memory of her flesh beneath his own. And he felt her; she permeated his very being, seeing nothing but her eyes as beacons in the night. He reaches to touch her in ways she had always longed. Her presence was all this night lacked. Fade to black.
“Paper, Sir?” the young man asked the stodgy old curmudgeon, the kind of guy with a whiskey flask, the creepy aged fart wasn’t budgin’
“What kind of scam are you running, boy?” the elderly gentleman wondered. “Why, what do you mean, Sir?” the boy was coy, for the man made a serious blunder.
“These papers you see, are the news of the day!” the lad took the time to detail, but the nattily dressed thought him a pest and wanted the young boy to fail.
The headline emblazoned read, “Man on the Moon!” and the photo depicted the same. “I must find me a constable, boy you’re a loon!” he called out but no officer came.
“Lies, lies, lies!” the man was heard to mumble. “What fantastic falsehoods you’re selling!” He reached for the papers and started to fumble to see all the tales they were telling.
“Stock Market Crash? World War II? Such fantasies? News of the Day? Stalin’s Mustache? The Avian Flu? I won’t buy this balderdash!” and the man walked away.
Young Master Buffet re-assembled his papers and inwardly chuckled because his “news of the day” told of future such capers, but he never said WHICH day it was!
All of his headlines were set to occur it was only a matter of when, but the pages on the bottom pleased him for sure “Warren Buffet: One of the World’s Richest Men!”
He started out small, he could envision this scene, making more green than the world’s ever seen!
THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET'S HEART 