Stream of Consciousness

Times of wonder, those Summer, days gone by. Children climbing, hiding on the bluffs. The sounds of squirrels and rabbits, fleeing from footsteps of running boys. Sweet breezes that blow through hair and into eyes, and the twilight fades and the darkness sets in. The resilience of youth is but a facade and can be seen through like Saran wrap. The chickens always come to roost, so they say and nevermore true than now. And later. Life trods on like the hull of the battleship still gliding yet deeper through the seas neverminding the torpedo that ruptured its aft. Sparrows still sing. The harvest moon yet rises. Puffy clouds still find their merry paths below azure skies. All the regrets reflected in the tears of one man's eye forgetting not the passion and devotion and hopes and teaching and some of the prayers. Where to begin, where to end, and to perservere in between, so it is and so am I.