Letters to the Streets of Gold

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 

Drunk-on-sunshine naps

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

“Jackson”,

But noticeable in a 

Bright-blue-paint-splatter-on-a-white-canvas 

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. 

 

However

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 

Special way; 

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.  

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world

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