Letters to the Streets Of Gold
Once, I wrote a letter.
Plastered on the marble-slab-smooth surface
Of a helium infused spaceship,
The letter soared on the wings of a red balloon.
The red, possessed a cherry tint
And its vessel smelled of packaged rubber and
Of a tired glossy finish.
The letter spoke of life, and more importantly
Of death and what
Life leaves behind.
Life was spoken of, in hopes to
Reminisce about memories of
And of the salty winds that grazed over
The white hot sand.
Not the salt that stung
But the salt that left a distinct taste on your lips
And twisted your hair into hundreds
Of tiny micro-curls.
Life was given a name.
Life was called Sunday Barbecues.
Life was known as dinner under dusty candlelight.
Life liked the nickname sun-burnt honey skin.
Life was found perched upon the wings of
one million butterflies.
Soaring above the flowers,
Life could not be stopped.
Until it was.
Death was spoken of, in hopes to
Heal splitting wounds.
In hopes to heal the
Deep rift that now had a permanent
Residence in the lower left quadrant of
A beating red heart.
Whether it was a scar,
Or a mark of remembrance, either way
It was noticeable.
Not noticeable in the kind-of way
A small record scratch would be like
If Johnny Cash were to skip
a few lines in
But noticeable in a
Kind of way.
But wounds are hard to mend when
It feels like the only bandage that will suffice
Is stitched together with strings woven by
The sound of his voice.
Life goes on, even when
Death makes his appearance.
The wings flutter elsewhere,
And hope is restored by the
Way the ocean still sounds the same
Even if he isn’t holding your child-like hand
Down to brace the shore.
The way that sweet Carolina barbecue sauce still tastes
The same when it glosses over your tongue
Even though it wasn’t cooked his
The way he learned from his dad.
Hope is restored by the fact that
Even though his words aren’t spoken on
This earth any longer,
His voice can still be heard through
Sunday Morning hymns.
Once I wrote a letter.
The letter was sent through the sky
To where I was taught
That the streets
Are made of solid gold
And where the lion is tamed
And roars to comfort the once-broken.
Where the clouds serve as beds
To the troubled,
And where every part of life is blanketed
By layers of peace.
Once I wrote a letter.
One can only hope
That their letters are received.