the echoing notes
of each string gently
being strummed shakes
the air between us both
picking away the last remains
of my defenses
like a white picket fence
long past the need
for a fresh coat of paint
or sandcastle built
too close to incoming waves
as they slowly erode
those carefully laid plans
grain by particulate grain.
in the end it never
really matters who gets
considered right (and by
default who’s labeled wrong)
as if life itself
was merely something
to be followed like
a blueprint or road map
so easily deciphered
and set in place
like the golden milestone
in faraway rome
sitting (as it does)
at the junction
of all possible roads.
