Writing for the Wastebasket

Real

 

An objective world before the eyes,

meaningless until we choose

to interact, our soul and it,

a panorama- lectern lit

by timely walk in ancient shoes.

 

Stone unturned, exposed and still,

it's still a stone with features hurled

until, it viewed and taken in,

a votive object- pressed to skin,

it only then becomes a world.

 

House, alike, is shell and stick-

precious nothing, fashioned foam.

The value that ascribes the loss

is memory, and love across

the ties that bind.  Then this, a home.

 

A force within compels the turn-

a work, indeed- projected forth

through clearer lens and better view.

Lest dormancy reclaim anew,

we must progress., march forward- North.

 

The meaning thing applied to dross

projects a path to time and place.

It echoes forth long after dead,

subjective paints rock, rose, and red,

'to err' avoided: honored space.