Blueprints

It was only here for the time I couldn’t see past…

But it was mine.

When yesterday is still tomorrow. When Hope and fantasy made no room for sorrow, It was here.

The hope. There is no synonym for it. Less of a feeling, more of a knowing…

It’s safety in the plans.

Laid in architecturally sound conversations Words stronger than the slaughtered skin of trees. Spoken in to reality. Palpable, Made of energy.

No pen was provided By the love stories I could hide in. No erasure to the movements of all tomorrows.

You cannot unbuild a structure when the ground is leveled to support her. You cannot replant the lumber. Nor turn the skyline from unnatural bright to slumber.

Hope is a city conjured up in grand plans, With whiskey stains on the blueprint outlines.

Measurements unnecessary, Bold lines of where it would be in time.

The lies and the truth coexisted. Only hope bound the two. It is so difficult to tell the air what to do.

The building sits waiting to consume…Not contain. Hope - the only stop in the drain.

When it’s dumped upon the first step Started on, you cannot plant back to life.

It’s already stopped growing. It’s death cycle is now what time upon is rolling.

Hope -

When yesterday’s intentions pathed over other possible dimensions.

Hope. shifts my path.

From this half built house…. There’s no going back.

What we thought would be now is, but it’s not bright or life giving as it should be.

This home - hastily constructed, but poised for gold platting - is where tomorrow’s Hope will grow from.

Not from trees - free from intention, Free from unnatural direction - But from what I wanted them to be.