Lost in the woods

His little dirty foot,
on the weed and shrub infested land.
Away from home and
into the woods, his heart willfully ran.
He lost something against
the awful winds of change.
He lost something that he kept
close by his chest on his walk today.
A bond he had, unlawful yet just.
Bonded still, he blew his time thus.
Fate played an awful game today
and that tether of spool-spit split
and flew very far away.
Bleeding tiny fingers
and unconscious guilt
threw his heartbeat out
and over through his ribcage
until senses fell apart.
Evaporated tears, arid lips
and the broken heart
thus conspired him to tread
into the maze of suburban woods.
He wandered through to
the other side where no
friends, enemies or traitors reside.
Looking for traces of the one he lost
through canopies of fallen trees
he drowned into, away from the city.
Away from all the noises that
null the chirp of a songbird
and disturb the secret murmer of the clouds.
Now, a buzz he heard
one of those shuffling kind.
It might be the one he lost
and longing wholly to find.
There he found it, stuck on an
insignificant branch of a tree-
clueless as the boy standing
just 5 feet away, gazing upward.

The kite he lost was still flying around
shuffling the air, going round and round.
Content and joyous with the dance it made,
the little boy waved goodbye to his lost old friend.

Lost and found

Days of doom went by since we last met.
I called him up and asked him “Where are you at?”
He said “Come over my man, let me thulp down my meal
and let us hang out to chill our souls down to zeal”

The impatient friend argued with a zest of being rightfully free
to rebut that his mom’s ill claims of him were utterly false as well.
I waited for him outside under the shady midget tree,
he walked out with a smirk and the burden of boredom suddenly fell.

Walking down the aisle of God’s own little cabinet
where shelves are littered with lives of awe.
The empty afternoon street sounded like a clarinet
that muted itself but still letting out a rhythmic claw.

We walked down to the field abundant with green
grasses and cow dungs that reflect the sheen
of the fiery sun that murders our lifted eyes
through sunglasses that seldom polarize.

The first roll of cream was fruitfully smoked
and we listened to indie songs of dazed up hope.
We ranted at each other letting out honest choice of words
we laughed at our own self for being so hopeless and worse.

Then came the shepherd, the old man with a patch-less single eye.
His one empty socket revealing a secret that he can’t hide.
He came close to us with a varnished stick 6 foot long
and he started accusing the world for being so wrong.

No introductions were exchanged and names were sought.
His voice was so weak by grazing the herd dreadfully, we thought.
Supported by the tip of the varnished stickĀ in the ground
he told us about the trouble with a disrupted rupture in sound.

He had six beautiful goats and a bountiful herd of cow
which grazed along the fields for the past few months and now.
A he-goat so manly and possibly a very good meat
was stolen right out of the field last day by rudest bikers across the street.

He wished he could chase and catch those dickhead thieves
and crush them into a pulp to sugar out all the essence of their heists.
His story of the lost goat had no purpose to be told right then
and that is when we figured out how lucky he was, the preposterous zen.

At least he knows what he had lost
and he could blatantly cry it away.
We looked at each other and wondered
what have we lost and what do we have to say?