"OF SPACE AND TIME I WRITE"

Once upon a time a friend of my youth whispered in my ear my life was clouds of illusion of both sides now. The friend is gone now of long ago. I thought about him and how the song he spoke of to me that day still speaks to me today. I was 17 at that time. I am 74. How did he know? I believe we are reborn throughout and our souls travel in time and space of many realities and into multi-universes of space and time. Perhaps we had met in another lifetime?

What do I write about?

I am blank today.

I hope I do not get writer's block

today

or tomorrow.

Comparisons to others trivial

pursuits

of writing

can expunge me out of the loop.

As I type today,

I remember yesterday,

and beyond the chemistry

of brains of reality

of time and space

as I face

everyday,

every night.

I contemplate

for Pete's sake

I say.

I analyze

the detail

of the story I can tell,

and write through space and time

as I act sublime,

in my younger years of being a free spirit,

as a norm of society I inherit

the free spirit of my soul,

to be bold,

to see through time,

to see through space,

as I step through a decade of a place.

I carried on a conversation of depth,

of my breath,

of love,

or above,

or below,

to live so high, so low.

I look at life from both sides now.

I look myself in the eye,

in the reflection in the mirror.

I ask why,

why do I see a tear

of life?

To be young,

to strive

for perfection coming my way.

There is only a unique character to sway,

to the beat

of the song I say,

in the heat,

in the cold,

in the dark.

I see the light of the fight

of clarity of life

of reflections of strife

of caring too much.

Well, quite a bunch

of lovers and friends of yesterday.

I think of so many today.

I am writing this story

of strife, love and imperfections of glory.

I see both sides now.

I can see the clouds, rainbows, moon, stars, and sun.

I look around and say, "Wow!"

Words of expression move my pen

to write I remember when.

I want to win.

However, my words expand across the page,

to another page

of another decade

of time and space of life on Earth.

I say,

expression,

move your pen,

Type those words of worth

as the dark clouds roll in.

Thunder sparks

lightning

of expressions from birth to death,

to the rebirth of a soul

of old

dreams on a Sunday.

So, I sway

to the stroke of a brush

over the canvas of my story of my life.

I blush.

Should I write of strife,

or out of pain or heartache of a lost love,

or found love?

Alas my pen

says I win

the prize for

the strokes of a crush.

What for?

Because I paint words

of time and space

all over the place,

not swords,

not arrows but in your face

to relate

as an eccentric human being I survive.

Illusions I recall

that is all.

Both sides now of fate,

young,

old,

bold

slate

of time

of late

of a bold old soul.

Written by

VICKI LAWANA TRUSSELLI

FEBRUARY 4, 2024