Go. Go. Go.

Go. Go.

Go.

An eternal glow invited me to sit by the bricks,
scraped plaster,
the year's have rubbed them happily
not warily
My seat has me convinced
Instilled the belief that old things don't
die.
Energy lives
lays dwindling like an element's natural
rate
of
decay

until, you return to sit
by the bricks,
listen to the voices hitting the walls,
fighting their way to remain in the room
before the night's end sets them on infirm pillows
where history's caretakers cradle them
and mope with distance,
the isolation pulling at the happy memories,
catering to tomorrow's dispondence

Holding this
All good things may come
But all will go
Hold on to what you've got
The red plastered bricks
can choose when
to invite you in.

Energy thrives where you let it,
old friends gather around caged wine
where happy labor squeezed nature's abundance into glass
composed, crafted, beautiful bliss
We thank you harvest number 372 for today's red graces
Here, we gather inside a capsule and smile,
forgetting that the outside's always closer than in

Even plaster withers and weathers away

Go. Go. Go

History's bricks, life's happy fits, fall in love
with hello

Three hours.

Go.